PS 3537 
.H31 L5 
1910 
Copy 1 




LITTLE PATCH 
O' BLUE 




GAZELIE STEVENS SHARP 




Class fS553 7 

Book, AVj\ 1 5 



iRfd 



Copyright^^_ 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



A LITTLE PATCH 
O' BLUE 



AND OTHER POEMS 



GAZELLE STEVENS SHARP 




BOSTON 

RICHARD G. BADGER 

THE GORHAM PRESS 
1910 



Copyright TQio by Gazelle Stevens Sharp 
All Rights Reserved 






III" 



The Gorham Press, Boston, U *s. a 



©CI.A275319 



To 
DIANA EUNICE JEFFERS 

This little volume is affectionately 
Dedicated. 

All turn them to her for sympathy, — 

None ever turneth in vain. 
A smile, a touch, words tender and strong 
Help lift the burden or right the wrong. 

Beguiling the bitter pain. 

Thou wise, o'er ruling Providence, 

From my heart thanks give I Thee, 
That loyal, steadfast, still she stands. 
With both her dear, uplifting hands 
Outstretched to mine and me. 



I dote on Milton and on Robert Burns; 
I love old Marryat, his tales of pelf; 
I live on Byron; but my heart most yearns 

Tovv^ard those sweet things that I have penned 
myself. 

— John Kendrick Bangs. 



CONTENTS 

Page 

A Little Patch O' Blue 9 

What She Wanted lO 

Accept Thyself n 

A Queer Little Hen 12 

Love to You All 13 

Give What Thou Hast 14 

For a Birthday Party 15 

Go and Sin no More 16 

'Twas St. Valentine s Day 18 

Who'd Think 19 

Selwyn 20 

Take Thine Own 21 

The High-Holes Nest 22 

Pleasure not Pain 24 

Have Me a Boy 25 

Anniversary Poem 26 

With a Child's Gift 27 

She Knew 28 

/ Wish She Knew 29 

Our New Possessions = . 30 

His Nice Firecrackers 32 

Seeds to Plant 33 

Influence 34 

Seventeen 35 

A Lawyer to Be 36 

5 



CONTENTS 

Page 

My Sister and Dick 37 

/ Want Lou 39 

They Call to Me Day and Night 40 

Making Grandma Well 41 

0-Dear and All-Right 42 

My Motto 43 

La Fleur Que TAime 44 

A Reminiscence 45 

Bridges 46 

She Hath Done What She Could 47 

In a Strange Land 48 

To Olive 49 

Too High 50 

Was It Christmas 51 

Twenty 52 

He Lost It 53 

A Home Dedication Song 54 

// We do the Best We Know 55 

Our Little Seven Year Old 56 

A Birthday Wish 57 

Harry Harwood 58 

February Fifteenth 59 

To Morda 60 

The Rat's Share 61 

At The Parting of the Ways 62 

Come On Up 63 

Birthday Musins 64 

To Roma 65 

6 



CONTENTS 

Page 

Homesick Pills 66 

Greeting from Oklahoma 67 

Stay Up 70 

To the Meadow-Lark 71 

At Parting 72 

For a Linen Shower 73 

Teddy 74 

Angus 75 

Happy Birthday 76 

It Fell 77 

A Blue Jay and an English Walnut 78 

Motherhood 80 

Killing Bugbears 81 

The Wrens Roundelay 82 

A Breath of Spring 83 

Try 'Em In a Good Light 84 

Swing Swang 85 

Button Button 86 

Music 89 

What I Saw This Morning 91 

Handy Holders 92 

Messers Baby 93 

For a Reception 95 

Not Wisely But Too Well 96 

Autumn 97 

Died at Santiago 99 

The Crystal Wedding lOi 

Three in a Row 103 

7 



CONTENTS 

Page 

Our Neighbor 104 

Heroes 105 

Unity Circle 107 

For a Handkerchief Bag 109 

Unchanged I lO 

What Is That in Thine Hand ill 

Christmas Bells 113 

Our World is but a School 115 

Little Gertrude's Catastrophe 117 

Where Are Your Flowers II9 

Seeing Pretty Things I20 

We Give Our Best I2l 

Her Secret 124 

To Joela 125 

Husband's Night 126 

December lOth 131 

// You Do Say Yes 132 

Thanksgiving 133 

Wild White Poppies 135 

Fifty Years 136 

Why Dreamest Thou 138 

To Ruth 139 

Yesterday 140 

Misunderstood 141 

We Have the Longed For Good 142 

Though They Forget 143 

Drops of Dew 144 

8 



A LITTLE PATCH O' BLUE 

'Twas one o' them 'ere blusterln' days 

That comes in early spring, 
The wind was whistlin' round the house — 

It blew like anything, 

Floppin' the clothes out on the line, 

Shakin' the trees about, 
Switchin' the vines agin the wall, 

An' rattlin' the eaves-spout. 

The sky was full o' flyin' clouds — 

The wind it chased 'em so — 
I can't begin to tell you now 

How hard the wind did blow, 

Ner how them gray clouds scampered past, 

Like they was scart, — ner yet 
Jest how the hull thing made me feel — 

But I shan't soon forget. 

The wind, an' clouds, an' trees' an' all. 

Was makin' such a fuss, 
It seemed like me an' ev'rything 

Was mixed up in a muss. 

An' there wa'n't nothin' firm er still, 

An' nothin' I could do, 
Ner hold to, nuther; — then I see 

A little patch o' blue. 

'Twas up above them flyin' clouds, 

Above the wind, an' me; — 
A purtier, bluer, stiller patch 

O' sky I never see. 



I tell you it was comfortin' 

An' strengthenin' to know 
There's somethin' common things don't move, 

An' ev'ry wind don't blow. 



WHAT SHE WANTED 

Curled cosily within her father's arms, 

Safe sheltered there from childhood's petty 
wrongs, 
A wee girl rested quite content. At length 
Coaxing, low whispered she: 

"Now sing me one of Cousin Kate's nice 
songs." 

"I cannot sing like Cousin Kate, my child," 
At that the little figure sat up straight. 

And looking in the face she loved so well, 
"Sing the same words," she said, 

"I don't care if you don't sing slim like Kate.'' 



10 



ACCEPT THYSELF 

My sister sprang to heights 

I could not climb, 
Though wearily I tried, 
My friend, with skill and strength, 

Made life sublime; 
I struggled at his side. 

Beneath my joy in them 

Lurked a deep pain. 
Turn wheresoe'er I would. 
What they so quickly reached, 

I longed to gain ; 
Strove eagerly, nor could. 

A whisper came one morn 

To comfort me, — 
A messenger divine: 
''What thy friend, thy sister are, 

Thou needst not be: 
Another task is thine." 

I took my life once more, 

Strong was my heart; 
I cheerfully would plod, — 
Let them or leap or soar, — 

Do my own part 
Of the world's work for God. 



II 



A QUEER LITTLE HEN 

There once was a little brown hen, 
A dear little, queer little hen. 

Her work was to lay, 

Just one egg every day; 
And she did it, this good little hen. 

She'd fly up in a tree, and right then. 
Seated high on a branch, this queer hen. 

Her egg she would lay. 

Her one egg every day. 
This good little, queer little hen. 

'Twas a strange thing to do, I must say. 
Lay an egg from a tree every day, 

And what good was the egg? — 

Just tell that, I beg — 
That fell from a tree in that way? 

But some people do things just as queer, 
I know it, I've seen it, my dear; 

They have a good thought. 

But it just comes to naught; 
From the wrong place they drop it, my dear. 

There's a lesson for you and for me. 
From the hen that laid eggs in a tree. 

If we do a right thing, 

If a good thought we bring. 
Let's not choose a wrong place, you and me. 



12 



LOVE TO YOU ALL 

Among the many sweet pictures 
That come at memory's call, 
There is one that visits me often 

As the twilight shadows fall. 
'Tis a group of childish figures 

Lingering at the stairway door, 
Oft in merry tones repeating 

The same fond words o'er and o'er, 
"Good-night, 
Love to you all, kiss to you all." 

'Tis strange to me now a-dreaming 

Of those days gone past recall. 
That we ever chid the darlings 

For their oft repeated call, 
Or were vexed because they loitered 

When the good-nights had been said, 
Waited, calling from the stairway 

Ere they scampered off to bed, 
"Good-night, 
Love to you all, kiss to you all." 

For now as I sit in the gloaming, 

Held fast in memory's thrall. 
My heart is with those dear ones. 

And I hear that good-night call. 
I long for the group at the fire-side, 

The group at the stair-way door. 
My soul cries out to each dear one, 

Here and on the other shore, 
"Good-night, 
Love to you all. Kiss to you all." 



13 



GIVE WHAT THOU HAST 

The thing you try to grasp 

Eludes your touch, 
E'en though with blessings fraught; 
That which you fain would be 

Proves far too much — 
Your yearnings count as naught. 

You see so plain the path 

Your feet would go, 
It stretches fair, afar; 
You strive for what is high. 

You crave to know. 
You loathe the thing you are. 

Germs quickened in your heart 

Some strong, glad hour, 
Are smothered e'er they bloom ; 
The seeds that spring to life 

Put forth no flower, 
But die from want of room. 

Another scales the heights, 

Thea stoops to seek 
The one thing you could give ; 
You will not stretch your hand — 

You are so weak — 
Shall you help others live? 

You have not borne much fruit — 

Why share your seed ? 
Cast thou abroad the grains. 
All that thou hast, each germ, 

More great the need 
Because of thy small gains. 



14 



Perchance, how shouldst thou know? 

On other soil 
The plant will e'er abide, 
Will yield an hundred fold, 

Repay thy toil. 
And bless the world beside. 



FOR A BIRTHDAY PARTY 

Please help me celebrate 
My birthday, it is number ten — 
To-morrow is the happy day 

And let me state 

That we shall be 
Most glad to see you then. 

Do not forget the date — 
November fourth, at half past four. 
We'll see that you get safely home 

Before 'tis late. 

By eight o'clock, 
Or, if you wish, before. 



15 



GO AND SIN NO MORE 

That this glad day which dawned so beautiful, 

so strong, 
Should soon be overcast by many a petty wrong. 
By unkind words, unjust, from me — the mother, 

wife — 
To tender child, to him, my husband, lover, friend. 
These dear ones whom I love, each better than 

my life — 
It fills my soul with grief that well nigh breaks my 

heart. 

That I who ever do so long and strive and pray 
To live among them, for them, strong and true each 
day — 
The grief, the shame of it, will darken all my 
days — 
That I, though wearied sore by oft recurring cares, 
Should be so vexed by little, willful, childish 
ways, 
And give unjust reproof in anger, not in love: 

Forgive me. Heavenly Father; unto Thee I call. 
They have forgiven me quite, my loyal loved ones 
all; 
I felt It in the clasp of clinging arms to-night. 
In smile. In warm embrace, in oft repeated kiss. 
Thou wilt, thou dost forgive, my Father, who 
aright 
With truest love and perfect wisdom judgest us. 

Now help me to forgive myself — excusing naught 
Weakly and cowardly, of wrong in deed or thought, 

But truly to forgive as they've forgiven me, 
Or as I would forgive another's grievous fault, 

i6 



Who sinning deep and oft against mine own and 
me, 
Repented sorrowing and my forgiveness sought. 

And help me to take up once more my daily load 
And walk courageously how hard soe'er the road — 
Yet blossoming midst its thorns and brightened 
all the way 
By sympathy and cheer from husband, children, 
friends — 
Help me to forward press nor shrinking, doubting 

Wasting my life, my strength, in weakening self- 
distrust. 

And help me learn to look below the outward sin, 
As thou dost, to the purpose strong and pure 
within ; 
Feel underneath the everlasting arms uphold, 
And say to self on each new morn, in hope and 
faith. 
As the dear Christ did say to her who sinned of 
old; 
''Neither do I condemn thee, go and sin no more." 



17 



'TWAS ST. VALENTINE'S DAY 

She came in from school, her face all aglow, 

My girlie with eyes so blue; 
She must have been well remembered, thought I, 

'Twas St. Valentine's day, I knew. 

But she'd not been thinking of self at all, — 

My daughter with golden hair, — 
A poor little girl without many friends 

Was the object of her fond care. 

"May I take some money, my mamma dear, — 

I've only a little I know, — 
And buy for Carrie a valentine gay, 

So she will have one to show? 

"The rest, sitting near her, all had some to-day,- 

I'm sure that she'll not get one, 
Why, they hardly play with Carrie at all, 

I don't think she has much fun." 

I sent her to school, the unselfish dear. 

As happy as happy could be, — 
And quite overjoyed was I when at night 

The mail brought my little girl three. 



i8 



WHO'D THINK 

''Who'd think that a little spot like that" — 

It is hard to understand — 
He drawled out the words, 'twas a way he had, 

"Would hurt like a whole sore hand?" 
'Twas a tiny boy who made this speech, 
He meant a wee burn on his finger; 
But his queer little speech, 
May a lesson teach, 
Well worth our while to remember. 

''Who'd think that a little spot like that. 
Would hurt like a whole sore hand." 
'Tis a dozen years back, yet his look and tone 

Still fresh in my memory stand. 
And his long-drawn words a lesson bring 
That we'll heed if we are wise. 
There is many a thing 
Besides burns, that sting 
Much more than we'd think, from their size. 



19 



SELWYN 

I scarcely know where to commence my rhyme, 

There's so much I would like to tell; 
How he talks so unlike the rest of us, 

For an 'V, or "th" using "1"; 
How he begs us for stories, — "the lame old ling" 

Suits him night and morning and noon — 
And how his papa just has to sing, 

And sing words never set to a tune. 

How he looks so much like a baby girl 

In his gown and his cap of white, 
With his yellow hair rippling out behind 

As he settles himself for the night ; 
And how strange it seems for a blue-eyed mite 

To want stories of wolves and bears, 
Of hunting and shooting and such wild things 

For which never a small girl cares. 

How strangers most always think him a girl — 

One old lady when told she was wrong. 
Replied, with a smile, "I called him a girl 

Because her hair is so long." 
And how, when the proofs of their pictures came 

And we crowded around to see, 
"Lat little girl is lister," he said, 

"And lis little girl is me." 

How he falls in a "fit of the desp'rate suz" — 
It was grandpa invented the name — 

Just because he cannot do as he likes — 
To tell it is really a shame; 



20 



How he "gets good" again in a trice each time 

And is 'iorry" this impulsive elf. 
His attacks are not very dangerous 

For the darling can cure them himself. 

How at dawn, bless his heart, with face all aglow. 

He says, cuddled down in my bed, 
"I am going to be good all the time now, 

And not cry — the way grandpa laid." 
O, how I hope he will realize 

Each beautiful earnest plan 
From his dimpled toes to his golden crown, 

How we love him, our little man. 



TAKE THINE OWN 

God hath enough for all, and yet to spare; 

Forth from its source th' unfailing stream doth 

speed 
Unto each one according to his need. 
Open thine heart, reach out, and take thy share. 



21 



THE HIGH-HOLE'S NEST 

Two old high-holes built a nest 

In the spring, 
Choosing place the}^ liked the best, 

Like a king. 
Can you guess the place they chose ? 
Do you know where birds like those 

Creep and cling? 

Yellowhammer is one name. 

For this bird, 
They are really just the same — 

In a word 
Yellowhammers, wake-ups, flickers, 
All are names for these wood-peckers, 

So I've heard. 

Find their picture in some book 

If you can, 
You can see just how they look, 

Little man, 
With queer marks of black and red 
On their breast and neck and head, 
On their wings black, in a bed 

Of dark tan. 

On one side of an old tree. 

This queer pair, 
Worked to-gether busily; 

With great care, 
Pecking, boring at their work, 
Neither one inclined to shirk, 

Always there. 



22 



Why, they fairly strewed the ground, 

Working thus, 
Bits of wood they dropped around, 

Such a muss! 
Henry, seeing his nice grass 
Littered o'er where people pass, 

Made a fuss. 

How they made the nest hole grow 

In that tree! 
Large enough for them, you know, 

It must be, 
And for all their young beside. 
Must be large, and deep, and wide. 
Deep enough the birds to hide. 

Don't you see? 

When up to the nest we stole, 

Soft did creep, 
Lifted Ruth up to the hole 

For a peep, 
She and we were quite amazed 
As into its depths we gazed, 

Broad and deep. 

Said I, "Why work they for days 

Without rest, 
When there are such nice, quick ways 

To build a nest?" 
"They have nothing else to do," 
Said the child, I caught her view; 
Building to one's nature true, 

Gives the zest. 



23 



PLEASURE NOT PAIN 

There was a time I felt as you do, dear, 

When little Emma died, our oldest girl, 
But that is past and gone this many a year; 

A tiny cushion made of faded silk, 
Stuck full of rusty pins, is all that's left 

Of what had once been hers, my precious one. 
Not long before she died, her fingers deft. 

Although so small, made it for me, dear child. 

One day Mame asked to take her sister's book. 

Well I recall the dear child's winning tone, 
What mother could resist that pleading look? 

And yet — to me like sacrilege it seemed; 
I could not bear it, since my Emma died, 

To see the playthings she had loved, e'en touched, 
Her dear hands still, by other hands beside. 

I kissed the upturned face, but did not speak. 

What could I do? Refuse the living child? 

Or add new anguish to the grief I bore? 
Ere yet I answered my wee daughter smiled. 

Her earnest eyes upraised to mine, and said, 
"If she were here again I know she'd say 

If I asked her to let me take her things: 
*Yes, little sissy, yes, of course you may.' " 

She'd caught her dear, dead sister's very tone. 

God bless the child — I knew that she was right, 

And from that hour I never felt the same. 
My grief had blinded me, all had been night. 

Now like a flash the scales seemed caught away. 
My darling Emma's treasures, one by one, 

I gave her little sister; they should give 
Not pain but pleasure, as they would have done 

Had their sweet owner lived to share the joy. 
24 



HAVE ME A BOY 

She sat leaning back, a small girl four years old, 
One chubby knee crossed for its wee mate to hold, 
A position, you'll say, as she'd often been told. 
Very much like a boy. 

All at once, with quick motion, she raised up her 

head. 
Her blue eyes were shining, her dimpled cheeks red ; 
"Say, why don't you pit some pants on me," she 

said, 

"And have me a boy?" 

We laughed at the queer baby question, but why ? 
Oft-times in our wishing, we Nature defy, 
Ask for just as impossible things, you and I, 
As her "have me a boy." 



-25 



ANNIVERSARY POEM 

Sech days as this is a jinin' link 

Betwixt the old an' the new. 
There's dozens o' people that you think 

On to once, good friends an' true; 
Some on 'em settin' around you here — 

An' some that are over there — 
All them that was at your weddin', 

Them that danced at your infare; 

Them that has touched one life, or both, 

Ofi an' on this forty year; 
Some that you've knew and liked a spell. 

An' others that's always dear. 
The thoughts that has come to you both to-day 

Of them far off, bye-gone times 
Has been sort o' music in your hearts, 

Singin' sweet like weddin' chimes. 

I know it has by the way that we 

Have felt since we got your bid 
To come an' help you celebrate. 
If we tried we could n't get rid 
O' thinkin' of all the pleasant times 

That has come to us through you, — 
The visits here, the gen'rous acts 

You know so well how to do. — 

I can't begin to put into words. 

All the things that I'd like to say. 
Nor call up for you the memories 

That's been fillin' my heart all day; 



26 



But I must jest tell you it does us good 

To see you a settin' here, 
With 5/our friends an' neighbors all about, 

An' some of your children near. 

In this home where we always like to come 

The feelin's that in us swell 
Are warm an' kindly to you both. 

We love you ; an' wish you well ; 
An' we hope each year that comes along 

'LI be better n the last, not wuss. 
An' that you'll be spared a long while yet 

To each other an' to us. 



WITH A CHILD'S GIFT 

This quilt made slowly, piece by piece, 

For you. 
By childish fingers lacking still 
In needle lore their elder's skill, 

A true 
Love off' ring is from your small niece. 



27 



SHE KNEW 

To Kindergarten swiftly was going 

The sweetest small four-year-old maid, 
About her the bright sun-light glinted, 
In and out 'midst her golden hair played, 
As she daintly tripped. 
Now walked, and now skipped, 
In a long blue coat, Hubbard-made. 

She looked such a wee little creature, 

To be seen toddling off in that way, 
No wonder a gentleman passing 
Just stopped for a moment to say: 
"I am much afraid, 
My tiny, sweet maid, 
You are running away this fine day." 

"And what did you answer him, darling?" 

Mamma asked the dear little tot; 
"I didn't say anything," she replied, 
"For, of course, I knew I was not." 
So conscious of right 
Was this four-year-old mite. 
Her bright smile was the answer he got. 



28 



I WISH SHE KNEW 

If I only were a poet 

I'd sing not of birds and flowers, 
Of fair azure skies, rare sunsets, 

Bubbling brooks, sequestered bowers— 
But I'd chant, in beauteous measure, 

For a maiden sweet and true, 
Many things I cannot tell her 

That I wish she knew. 

I would paint in words her picture 

As it lingers in my heart, 
Draw each curve of form and feature. 

Reproduce each dainty part. 
I would match in sweetest rythm, 

All her beauty, all her grace; 
I would picture smiles and dimples 

Playing 'bout her face. 

I'd not stop, in my word painting 

With her eyes of deepest blue. 
But would show with rarest touches. 

Her pure soul there shining through. 
I would tell of gentlest action, 

Kindest word and purest thought; 
Say that ever to me watching 

She seems without fault. 

I would call her modest, faithful. 
Earnest, too, unselfish, bright; 
I would paint her doing ever. 
In each place, the thing that's right, 
Just the thing you're proud to have her, 

Just the thing you'd like to do ; — 
This and more I'd try to tell her, — 
Oh, I wish she knew! 
29 



''OUR NEW POSSESSIONS" 

(Annual Meeting, 

Unity Church, Humboldt, la.) 

In these days of work and worry, 

In these times of strife and labor, 

Days of research and of progress, 

Times of upward, forward looking, 

It is well to pause a moment, 

Our swift onward march to slacken. 

Turn one moment from the future. 

Pause a moment in the present; 

Take the time to wait and ponder. 

Take the time to count and number. 

All that this swift year has given. 

All the past twelvemonth had brought us, 

Not of sermons am I speaking. 
Though of these a goodly portion, 
Has the year brought to us waiting. 
Not of members new and welcome, 
Not of helpful inspiration, 
Not prosperity financial; 
This and more have others told you. 
Things, I speak of, not ideals, 
Furniture not inspiration. 

Listen while I name them over. 
Hearken, and I will recount them. 
All that I can think to tell you 
That the past twelvemonth has given, 
Given to us, needing, asking; 
Given to us, waiting, working. 

See the things whereof I tell you, 
See the new things in the parlors, 
In the basement, in the parsonage, 
In the audience room and hallway. 
30 



For electric lights, see fixtures 
For more lights to see the rest by. 
See the kitchen with its cupboards, 
See the dining-room and tables. 
See the water-works and fittings. 
The new range and lavatory. 
And the mirrors, look into them, 
See yourselves as others see you. 
And the chairs by tens and dozens. 
Choose one as your mood doth dictate, — 
Rocking, fancy, cane-seat, folding — 
Or, perchance our couch will please you, 
Suit you better than a chair could. 
Seat yourself upon it freely. 
Rest )^ourself upon its cushions. 

See the furnace in the parsonage, 
In the church the large new furnace. 
See the swinging doors new covered ; 
See new pictures, two madonnas; 
See the curtain full of mottoes. 
Motto-curtain for the children. 
See the paper in the parsonage, 
In the church, too, see new paper — 
Not enough, but some new paper. 
And the pews, commodious, stately. 
The new pews, new book-racks holding. 
Where new books wait for the singers, 
Books for all the congregation. 

These to us the year has given. 
Given to us, planning, working, 
Windows, too, to check the north wind, 
On the parsonage to protect it ; 
Rugs have we both new and costly, 
Bright to look at, soft to walk on ; 



31 



And o'er all the floor of pine boards 
See our carpet, green as moss is, 
Our new carpet, soft and pretty; 
Curtains, too, have we acquired 
That the light may enter gently. 
And in all your looking, seeing. 
Do not fail to see the book-case. 
Book-case near the north east corner, 
Neat and new and full of reading. 
And o'er all upon occasion 
Our new flag may wave and flutter. 

Is there more I have not told you. 
Other words I should have spoken ? 
These, at least, the year has brought us, 
These the past twelvemonth has given. 
Things, I speak of, not ideas. 
Furnishings, not inspiration. 



HIS NICE FIRECRACKERS 

He had a bunch of crackers. 
And punk and matches, too, 

But his firecrackers wouldn't go 
And he was getting blue. 

Then his papa and his mama 
Called them their favorite kind: 

"So very safe," "so nice and still," 
And he laughed and didn't mind. 



32 



SEEDS To PLANT 

She came to me in tears, 

Her small hands holding tight 
The fragments of a gourd once round and white, 

The last of her small store ; 

What would she do for more? 
With sobs she showed me where it fell and broke 

Upon the floor. 

I gathered up the seeds, 

Each such a tiny thing. 
"We'll plant them," so I told her, "in the spring. 

And you shall watch them grow. 

And sweetheart, do you know 
There'll be no end of nice, round gourds for you 

Before the snow"? 

The child was comforted. 

And went back to her play ; 
She'd learned the lesson well ; that very day 

She brought me her tin sheep; 

"Let's find the seeds to keep, 
And plant, and make more grow for me," she beg- 
ged, 

My wee Bopeep! 



33 



INFLUENCE 

(Nor knowest thou what argument, 
Thy life to thy neighbor's creed hath leant.) 

— Emerson. 

Hied them to rural scenes, one summer's morn, 
A kindergarten band in strange, glad mood; 

A ragged, unkempt crowd of city waifs, — 

One fair, young girl mothered the motley brood. 
With rare, sweet smile. 

Light touch or soft caress, and gentlest mien, 

She flitted 'mongst her subjects — she their queen. 
A youth near by watched, wondering the while. 

As still he gazed upon the beauteous sight, 
The poet sprang to life within his soul. 

And, Pallas like, the boy became a man. 

Full-fledged, elate ; beyond he saw the goal, — 
To lend a hand. 

To sing glad songs of hope for saddened hearts, 

Heal up the wounds made by sin's poisoned darts, 

Give to mankind a message sweet and grand. 

I. 

Children and guide went their allotted ways; 

The poet, too, went his, nor saw them more ; 
But from that chance encounter forth there sped — 

Like circling waves that touch on either shore 
From pebble tossed 
Mid-ocean from some vessel outward bound — 
A current strong whose depths we may not sound, 

Nor can its course be traced, its influence lost. 



34 



We go our devious ways, play our small parts; 

Perform our homely tasks, live out our lives; 
What watcher sees our deeds we may not know, 

Nor what impulse within for mastery strives. 
How dare we swerve 
From duty's path to seek an easier way. 
Neglect one task, our hand an instant stay. 

Not knowing when it may be ours to serve. 



SEVENTEEN 

YouVe reached another mile-stone, dear, 
Youth's dreams hold you in thrall. 

Conflicting duties bid you choose. 
And stranger voices call. 
From treasures waiting to be culled 
The choicest haste to glean; 

You cannot always look at life 
Through eyes of ''Sweet Sixteen." 



35 



A LAWYER TO-BE 

"Will you be a lawyer like papa, dear heart, 

And sit in an office and write, 
Study big books and make speeches at court 
That are brave and honest and bright ? 
When you are a man, 
Will you, if you can, 
Be a lawyer and stand for the right?" 

So a fond mother questioned her little son, 

Who sat by her side at his play. 
"Yes I'll be a lawyer like papa," he said, 
"Only not in quite the same way; 

When I am a man. 

If I possibly can, 
I am going to drive a big dray." 



36 



MY SISTER AND DICK 

I want to tell you something queer; 
It happened in the spring one year, 
Just when I don't remember, dear. 

But long ago. 
'Tis all about a poor young chick 
(I think the creature's name was Dick) ; 
It nearly made my sister sick 

To see his woe. 

Now Dick was motherless, you see, 
And wretched as a chick could be; 
Forever underfoot was he, 

And in the way. 
The other chickens ate his corn. 
And pestered him both night and morn, 
And he grew more and more forlorn 

Day after day. 

The ducks and geese put him to rout; 
The pigeons, too, chased him about; 
They even plucked his feathers out. 

Nor let them grow. 
The way they did was just a sin; 
No wonder Dick grew lank and thin; 
My sister had to take him in, 

They acted so. 

Then she disheartened quite became; 
And really was she much to blame? 
She said it was a burning shame 
To let him stay 



37 



And look so bad and suffer so, 
(His skin was bare, he didn't grow) ; 
They certainlj^ must end his woe 
Without dela}^ 

But vainly she his cause did plead, 
Her husband quite with her agreed, 
But vowTd he'd never do the deed, 

Oh, no, not he. 
The farm-hand he'd "not kill the thing." 
How could she ever, ever bring 
Herself poor Dickie's neck to wring; 

But it must be. 

Herself and Dick alone she found; 

At once she snatched him from the ground, 

And whirled him swiftly round and round 

By his poor head, 
Then flung him far into the corn. 
She went about her work that morn, 
With feelings that were most forlorn; 

Poor Dick was dead! 

She felt herself a murderer, 

She wished folks would not look at her, 

She started at the slightest stir — 

Could it be Dick? 
She passed a night of troubled sleep, 
Rose unrefreshed, commenced to sweep, 
When — yes, it was his well-known peep, 

There stood that chick! 



38 



I WANT LOU 

Lying wrapped jn a slumber profound, 
With bright dream fancies closing me round, 
I was roused by a low, sweet sound. 

'Twas a dear voice said, 

From my baby boy's bed, 
''Mamma da'li', I want lou." 

Then his dear form I clasped to my breast. 
To my heart close his sweet face I pressed, 
By his innocent love, oh, how blessed 1 

Yes, it more than repaid 

All the trouble he made — 
That sweet, ''Mamma, I want lou." 

While my arms round my baby I kept. 
To my heart a deep pity there crept 
For the arms where no little one slept. 

Those homes where none say, 

Or at night or by day, 
"Mamma darling, I want you." 



39 



THEY CALL TO ME DAY AND NIGHT 

About me I see noble women, 

Alive to humanity's needs, 
Whose hearts are in touch with all nature, 

Whose lives overflow with good deeds ; 
With leisure to follow love's promptings, 

To help make some other's path bright; — 
I have only my little children 

Who call to me day and night. 

Then I think me of how many women 

Have never a baby to hold; 
Who through the swift flight of the seasons 

Watch no tiny blossoms unfold ; 
Whose homes, howsoe'er grand and costly. 

No dear childish faces make bright; 
To whom never comes the sweet music 

Of voices that call day and night. 

And I think of the sorrowing mothers 

Whose birds from the home nest have flown, 
Flitted back through the portals of heaven 

While they linger grieving alone; 
Whose homes, now so empty and quiet. 

Were once filled with laughter and light, 
No more will those sweet baby voices 

Respond, though they call day and night. 

I think, too, of others whose dear ones 

A fond mother's guidance have left. 
Estranged by new scenes and companions 

From her thus so sadly bereft; 
Though she, as of yore, yearns to greet them, 

No response comes her love to requite. 
While I — thank God, I have my children, 

And they call to me day and night, 
40 



MAKING GRANDMA WELL 

Her grandma was out in the orchard — 

'Twas her great grandmamma you must know, 
Where dusky bees sipped the stored sweetness 
From blossoms with petals of snow. 
One meddlesome fellow 
Got caught in her hair, 
And stung poor old grandma; 
Oh, how did he dare? 

She reached her own room almost fainting 

Needing mamma's and grandmamma's aid, 
While dear little Faith Theodora 
To assist in her small way essayed. 
But Faith Theodora 

Was just barely two; 
At first there seemed nothing 
To help she could do. 

She stood sadly watching poor grandma, 

Her brown eyes o'erbrimming with tears ; 
One moment of helpless inaction. 

Then with forethought past one of her years, 
She took from the table, — 

She knew by the smell, — 
A bottle of camphor, 
To "make Bama well." 

Oft now it comes back in the twilight. 

The sweet picture our grief to beguile. 
Wee Faith's earnest look of compassion, 
And dear grandmother's answering smile. 
How precious the picture 

None ever can tell, 
Our tiny girl trying 

To make grandma well. 

41 



O-DEAR AND ALL-RIGHT 

Two sprites there are come from Elfland, 

Who both want the very same child, 
So anxious am I which will win 
It makes me sometimes nearly wild. 
She is my child you see 
So you all will agree 
What effects her also effects me. 

These sprites — I have called one O-Dear, 

All-Right for the other my name — 
Are found in your home, I dare say, 
Or others that act much the same. 
When called from her play 
I can tell by the way 
My child answers, which sprite 'tis holds sway. 

Sometimes 'tis O-Dear takes the lead 

And on my sweet girl gets a hold. 
O-Dear is the one we don't like, — 
He brings to us trouble untold. 
O-Dear makes her pout, 
Puts her good looks to rout, 
Would quite spoil her in time without doubt. 

I am glad when All-Right takes his turn. 

For he's such a dear little sprite. 
As unlike O-Dear as the day 

With its sunshine is unlike the night. 
I am sure in the end 
She'll make All-Right her friend. 
And O-Dear back to Elfland will send. 



42 



MY MOTTO 

Quite disheartened was I one gray morn 

Of a new year but just then begun, 
As I thought of the much I had hoped, 

Of the little I really had won. 
Then a host of resolves trouping came. 

Now this and now that led the van ; 
Some new foe seemed as oft to arise. 

Meeting each in its turn with a ban. 

To do aught that was great, grand, or good. 

Of small use it appeared e'en to try. 
Like a search-light dispelling the gloom 

Came this thought and it seemed to defy — 
With its strength and its beauty conjoined — 

My forebodings, their weakness to scan: 
No matter what anyone else does 

I will do as near right as I can. 

It still comes to me oft as I work. 

Bringing courage and hope in its train. 
Tis because I have found it of use 

That to share it with you I am fain. 
Here it is; come and take it, 'tis yours; 

It will do for child, woman, or man: 
No matter what anyone else does 

I will do as near right as I can. 

Though I find myself powerless and weak, 

My surroundings all greatly awry, 
Though the demons of doubt do their worst, 

Though in ruins my air-castles lie. 
Though friend join with foe for my hurt, 

All shall not my purpose unman: 
No matter what anyone else does, 

I will do as near right as I can. 

43 



LA FLEUR QUE J'AIME 

(For Gratia in her Bonnet.) 

I often have thought the pond lily 

The flower of all flowers I like best, 

Yet at times 'tis a frail morning glory, 
Or a pansy, that best bears the test; 

Again roses seem with their fragrance 
And beauty to lead all the rest. 

And now there's another sweet blossom 
That holds in my heart the first place; 

'Tis quite new, you may not have seen it. 
The calyx is white, frilled with lace, 

The petals — but howe'er describe it? 
Let me show you instead her dear face. 



44 



A REMINISCENCE 

I saw her just once, this grand woman, 
In the prime of her wonderful power; 

'Twas commencement at my alma mater 

And she stopped between trains, for an hour. 

She was handsomer far than her pictures, 

I shall never forget her sweet face. 
Nor the hush, and the greeting which followed, 

As our president led her to place. 

With thanks for the courtesy shown her, 
A smile, a swift glance toward her past. 

To her home, and the school of her girlhood, 
And a spell o'er us all she had cast. 

The heart of that vast sea of people 
Seemed beating in time with her own, 

As she poured forth the message she carried, 
Good seed by a skilful hand sown. 

'Twas the day just before the amendment* 

Was passed, in eighteen eighty-two. 
Next day eager students, bound homeward, 

Filled the trains, and each station passed through 

Was greeted with songs from the platform, 
Full of purpose, so earnest and strong, 

That I venture not one man who listened 
To those singers that day voted wrong. 

In memory of Frances E. Willard, 

My mite I thus send on its way, 
To join the still widening current 

That she set in motion that day. 



*The Iowa Prohibition Amendment. 
45 



BRIDGES 

A simple structure, rude and unadorned, 
But strong, bestrides a sluggish stream, 
And makes a highway over boggy plains 
That else were wearisome and hazardous. 
Afar, ascending upward toward the blue, 
A miracle of architectural grace 
Bespans a mighty torrent, links the hills, 
And gives safe transport to a myriad lives. 
Yet who shall judge the twain, or underprize 
The one, since both do satisfy a need, 
And fill the scope marked out? 

So 'tis with deeds of men; they rise aloft, 
And dazzle by their comeliness and power, 
Or bend them low in some secluded spot. 
To shape a roadway for oncoming feet; 
Dissimilar are they, and yet the same. 
So be that each doth rightly bridge some strait. 
Then look ye how ye build. 



46 



'SHE HATH DONE WHAT SHE COULD" 
{For D. E. J.) 

She sees in the hazy distance 

Her girlhood's fair ideal. 
High and radiant there afar 
It lures no more but, a beacon star, 

Illumines her daily real. 

As she walks 'neath the sacred shadow 

Of that fair "not-to-be" 
She waxeth ever strong and pure, 
More swift to comfort, brave to endure. 

She sees as the sweet-souled see, 

Who let the chastening memory 

Of some loved "might-have-been" 
Enter their being, a healing balm, 
Replacing life's passion with helpful calm. 
And her heart becometh akin 

To the heart of the great All-Father, 

Near to each struggling child. 
The maid by her first young anguish torn, 
The weary mother, sad and worn, 

The youth with impulse wild. 

All turn them to her for sympathy, — 

None ever turneth in vain. 
A smile, a touch, words tender and strong. 
Help lift the burden or right the wrong, 

Beguiling the bitter pain. 

Ne'er dreams she the worth of her labor, 

The love cast down at her feet, 
Knoweth not she hath reached a higher plane 
Than that she once vainly longed to gain, — 
Though life is full and sweet. 
47 



Thou wise, o'erruling Providence, 

From my heart thanks give I Thee, 
That loyal, steadfast, still she stands, 
With both her dear uplifting hands 
Outstretched to mine and me. 



IN A STRANGE LAND 

O, Thou All-Father, 
Holding in thine hand 
The ponderous planet, and the frail flower-cup, 
Beneath me are Thine everlasting arme. 
E'en in a stranger land, 
And they will bear me up. 



48 



TO OLIVE 

Here we have met, a little band 

Of schoolmates who, for many a day 

Have joined with you with heart and hand 
In cheerful work and merry play. 

We'll miss you when no longer here, 
Olive dear. 

We'll miss your laugh, your sparkling eyes, 
Bright, rippling hair, gay tripping feet, 

Your eager questions, quick replies; 
We'll miss the little girl complete. 

'Tis sad these happy times must end. 
Little friend. 

Though you are going far away. 
To find new friends, another home. 

New duties, too, for each glad day, 

You will not beneath heaven's blue dome 

Find truer friends than those left here, 
Olive dear. 

We pray Dame Fortune to be kind, 
And generous in her gifts to you. 

To bring you clouds all silver lined, 
Or send you skies forever blue; 

May happiness your steps attend. 
Little friend. 

Let not new friends, though good and true. 
Quite crowd the old from heart and mind, 

Whate'er the future brings to you. 
Still think of us you leave behind. 

And come back often to us here, 
Olive dear. 



49 



TOO HIGH 

He had his first small pocket, 

This little boy named Will, 
But to get his hand Inside it, 

Tried all his baby skill; 
For grandmamma who made it, 

Was out of practice quite; 
'Twas many years since she'd made clothes 

For such a tiny mite. 

And so the longed-for pocket 

Upon his jacket small, 
Was quite too high, he could not get 

His hand inside at all. 
He twisted and he wriggled. 

He turned him round and round, 
He crouched upon the carpet, 

Then sprang up with a bound. 

Standing upon his tiptoes, 

He tried with might and main; 
But each attempt was futile. 

And all his efforts vain. 
Then for a time he faltered, 

Standing with thoughtful air; 
Again the wee face brightened — 

He climbed upon a chair. 



50 



WAS IT CHRISTMAS? 

In November with sweet, wistful look, 
Said a four-year-old pet, "Mama, dear, 

You've talked about Christmas so long. 

Won't you tell me just when 'twill be here?" 

Mama showed her the calendar gay, 
That hung near the little white bed: 

'"Twill be Christmas when both leaves are gone," 
Scarce pausing to think what she said. 

The very next day, this wee rogue. 

Said with lips that seemed made to be kissed, 

''They are gone! Is it Christmas right now?" 
Showing both leaves in one chubby fist. 



51 



TWENTY 

The days whirl by in a circular dance, 
Swift and more swift the seasons advance, 
Ere one is aware a twelvemonth has sped 
And a new birthday rolls over his head. 
Then at once the past and its varying scenes 
To confront the new-comer memory convenes. 

Does it seem ''so old" to be twenty at last, 
With childhood forever a thing of the past ? 
Does the present look as you thought that it would ? 
Can you do as much as you felt that you could ? 
Did womanhood mean to you what it now means 
When you viewed it, a maiden but just in her teens? 

Now may girlhood's feverish unrest and haste. 
By a "healthy discontent" be replaced. 
May life grow rich as the years unfold. 
Bringing you beauties and powers untold, 
Making you one of the earth's fair queens. 
Fulfilling dreams dreamed while a maid in your 
teens. 

Now memory singeth a rollicking air. 
Then turns to what seemeth akin to despair 
The past hath its changes, its smiles and its frowns. 
May future years bring fewer crosses, than crowns. 
Its shifting scenes hold less of grays than of greens. 
For you, dear, no longer a maid in her teens. 



52 



HE LOST IT 

Now Shep, the family dog, was cross, 

A cat he couldn't endure. 
"He'll kill poor Tab one of these days. 

Of that I'm very sure." 
So said my neighbor, and added, too, 

'Til put her into a sack, 
And carry her off, and lose her, so 

She'll never find the way back." 

I didn't like to interfere ; 

But it always seemed to me, 
If a poor cat must be disposed of, 

How much better it would be 
To actually end her wretched life 

By death in a humane way, 
Than leave her hunted, homeless, forlorn. 

To hunger and cold, a prey. 

When I told him so, he frankly said 

That there was some truth in that, 
But, like unto many another man. 

He hated to kill a cat. 
So Mistress Puss was securely tied 

In a grain sack whole and new. 
And away they went to the nearest woods. 

When what did the old cat do 

But in some way get out of the cart. 

When he'd found a splendid place 
To lose his cat, both it and the sack 

Were gone, and had left no trace. 
He'd lost it all right— I don't mean the cat. 

On the steps when he got back, 
She lay curled up in the sun, asleep; 

But he never found the sack. 

53 



A HOME DEDICATION SONG 

You ask me for a song as here we gather, 

A song mete for this building, fair and new, 
The household by its ample roof now sheltered, 
These our dear friends, our earnest friends and 
true. 
The song Is in our hearts, yours and mine, 
In our voices how It rings! 
In our silence still It sings, 
This happy, heartfelt song, mine and thine. 

To-gether we beheld the old-time dw^elling , 

Removed from its accustomed resting place. 
Shared we the shock, felt we the twitch of heart 
strings. 

To see this spot by stranger hands defaced ; 
To-gether we have watched, with pleased atten- 
tion, 

The builder's plans, day after day, unfold; 
To-gether have we seen this stately structure 

Take form upon the loved site of the old. 

And now we greet with pride this habitation, 

Welcome addition to our village fair. 
And with a happiness deep and abiding 
The pleasure of its rightful owner share. 
But this house Is partly ours, yours and mine. 
If I rightly read the heart. 
It was built for us In part. 
By these loyal friends of ours, mine and thine. 

'Tis new, yet old, this beauteous dwelling place. 

As In past years, the trees, with spreading arms. 
Make their accustomed music through the night, 

At morn the old-time view presents new charms. 



54 



And may there enter here, and here abide, 

Associations tender, sacred, dear. 
That clustered round the old home left behind, 

Augmented by new ties, year after year. 

And by so much as this fair house excels 

The dwelling now out-grown, so much and more 
May life herein exceed, in joy and peace, 
In worth and blessedness, all life before. 
The prayer is in our hearts, yours and mine. 
That this house a home may be, 
A true home, from discord free, 
Where life daily grows more human, more di- 
vine. 



IF WE DO THE BEST WE KNOW 

When we do the best we know 
Very often time will show 
It is very far from well ; 
Yet we should not feel to blame. 
Suffering as from guilt or shame. 
If we do the best we know. 
We can let God do the rest, 
And he doeth all things best. 



55 



OUR LITTLE SEVEN-YEAR-OLD 

The true Christmas spirit had she, 

Our dear little seven-year-old, 
The only one in the house — ah me! — 

Who had, if the truth were told. 

For all of us questioned and guessed 
Or thought about what we would get, 

The while our loving plans for the rest 
By worry and doubt were beset. 

A-longing for more for this one or that, 
Wond'ring what the other would want. 

Each under "the Christmas burden" sat. 
Save her: not a thing seemed to daunt 

This maiden, who counted in piles 
All her tiny hoard, cent by cent, 

Than her face covered over with smiles, 
A-shopping, undaunted still, went. 

Went alone, too, none happier, I ween. 
Buying just what to her seemed the best.— 

The baby's cost three cents, mama's fifteen. 
There were five cents apiece for the rest. 

Then with money all spent to a cent. 
Her purchases labelled and tied, 

She composed herself with a content 
To most of her elders denied. 

"What do you want Christmas to bring?" 
We asked. "You have not told yet," 

"I want," her voice had a cheery ring, 
"To just wait and see what I'll get." 



56 



A BIRTHDAY WISH 

It has fallen to me to express 

For myself and all the rest 
The wish that each new year of your life 

May be the brightest and best. 

To tell you how much we love you, 

And appreciate what you do. 
With all the rest you have done for us ; 

We want to thank you, too, 

For getting all ready for our use 

Our teacher as we find her ; 
We know she couldn't be as nice 

Without her good mother behind her. 

Now please think of all the other good things, 

That I have not thought to say. 
And add them to this as our wish for you 

On your sixty-eighth birthday. 



57 



HARRY HARWOOD 

He IS papa's "Tootsey Wootsey", 

This darling little man, 
Who fills the house with sunshine 

If ever a baby can. 
But that is only one name, — 

He is mama's ''Honey Boy", 
He is grandma's ''Darling Baby, ' 

And his grandpa's "Jimmie Joy." 

He is his Uncle John's "Kid", 

If what he says is true; 
And he's Aunt Allie's "Sweetheart," 

I wish he were mine, too. 
His Aunty Jeffer's "Sweet Boy," 

Is this darling little elf, 
And Uncle Wayne, his "Petie Pet", 

He will tell you so himself. 

He says he is Grace's "Darling", 

And Ruthie's "Little Cousin" 
Were every one so winsome, sweet, 

I'd like a good round dozen. 
To all of those who've given names. 

To this tiny two-years mite. 
Will he tell the one they call him. 

And always tell it right. 

But just a string of pet names. 

As they fall from his baby lips, 
Would not make us love the blessing. 

To his rosy finger tips. 
No words of mine can tell you 

What makes him a constant joy. 
If I could I would most gladly 

Just show you the darling boy. 

58 



FEBRUARY FIFTEENTH 

It looks, in sooth, a day most inauspicious. 

Yet twice have oped its potrals bare 
To give to earth and me of heaven a foretaste, 

Two sisters dear my love to share. 
Henceforth for aye, despite its untoward seeming, 

Deep in my heart I hold it fair. 

And since once and again that selfsame dayspring. 
E'en though in semblance grim and drear, 

With parted doors has brought from out its treas- 
ures 
Gifts unto me priceless, most dear. 

All days that come, with what they hold in keeping 
For mine and me, will I not fear. 



59 



TO MORDA 

May you have many birthdays, sister mine, 

With happy months between, 
And may prosperity upon you shine. 

Dame Fortune toward you lean. 

And may the years, as swift they come and go, 

Bring ever in their wake 
Much of the best that life has, to bestow 

On those who will but take. 

And when you, year by year, old age have gained- 
Nay, dearest, do not frown, — 

To girlhood true, to womanhood unstained. 
Be it the fitting crown. 



60 



THE RAT'S SHARE 

'Twas the dearest wee pie-pumpkin 

That a good, kind neighbor gave 
To our girlie for Thanksgiving. 

What more could a baby crave ? 

But w^hen we went to get it 

To cut up and stew for pies, 
A dreadful thing had happened it; 

We could scarce believe our eyes. 

There upon an empty barrel 

The yellow beauty sat 
With a gaping hole in one plump side, — 

The work of a greedy rat. 

He had gnawed and nibbled and eaten 

Every bit excepting the peel. 
For such an act of trespass 

He should have been made to squeal. 

Our girlie was nigh heart-broken, 

But soon forgot her woe 
A-watching under mama's hands 

The Thanksgiving goodies grow. 

And when the longed for day arrived 
And the aunties and cousins came, 

In spite of what that old rat did 
She was thankful just the same. 

For there were lots of nice things. 
And many such dear folks, too. 

That she couldn't begrudge him one pumpkin,- 
A raw one — not she. Could you? 



6i 



AT THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 

We stand beside the parting of the ways, 

The road our feet must tread we dimly see, 

Outstretched before, it lies, an unknown maze, 

Its winding course baffles our eager gaze. 
Ready, yet half reluctant, linger we 

One moment at the parting of the ways. 

One moment stand beside the parting ways. 
But one, the next we onward press perforce. 

And find, with satisfaction and amaze. 

The way no more obscure, bedimmed by haze, 
But, step by step, upon our forward course, 

As hitherto, the glimmering sunlight plays. 



62 



COME ON UP 

Pausing there upon the stairway 

With her children by my side, 
Tender memories stole o'er me, 

A resistless, surging tide. 
I could almost see her standing 

Just outside her bedroom door, 
Calling to me bright, informal. 

As she had so oft before: 
"Come on up!" 

Fast they came, those memory pictures, 

Forward from departed years, 
Till my heart glowed with affection, 

And my eyes were filled with tears. 
It is ever thus I see her, 

Our beloved pastor's wife. 
Calling to us, by the power 

Of a pure, unselfish life: 
"Come — on — up !" 

Still we feel her gentle presence. 

Even tho' the years have flown. 
Since she moved among us daily 

And we called her all our own. 
Now we almost see her beckon 

To us from the other shore. 
Calling softly, eager, earnest. 

There, but just within the door, 
"Come — on— up !" 



63 



BIRTHDAY MUSIN'S 

Seems to me as if the birthdays 

Keep a-crowdin' on so thick, 
I can't hardly keep up with 'em ; 

An' it makes me a kind o' sick, 
Sometimes, when I get to thinkin', — 

'Pears like there haint much to show 
Fer 'em — all the busy, hurryin' 

Years o' mine that come and go. 

There's so much that I intended. 

Reckoned I could do for sure, 
That I couldn't — 't makes the little 

I have done look mighty poor. 
Things that I intended doin' 

Fer hirn an' the children, too; 
There's no end to what I haint done 

That I had sot out to do. 

But I hain't a-goin' to worry, 

Spoilin' all the children's fun, 
Makin' him feel bad, an' me, too. 

Jest for things that haint been done. 
Even if the birthdays do crowd. 

It don't pay to feel too mean, 
On account o' the poor showin' 

Fer the years that's in between. 

I've been thinkin' lots about it, — 

How it don't help none to fret; — 
Why, I might be doin' somethin' 

That 'd count, the while I set 
Broodin' over last year's troubles. 

P'raps I sot too big a stent; 
If 't can't be done before a birthday 

This time, let it go beyent. 

64 



TO ROMA 

Many a time through the busy hours 

Of these crowded days do I roam, 
In thought, from the task in hand, to you 

In your beautiful, childless home. 
I see you sit through the live-long day, 

Your dear hands never still, — 
As stitch by stitch, with motions swift, 

You fashion with wondrous skill, 

One after another — still they grow 

Small garments neat and fair. 
And mine the brood of little ones 

Those dainty clothes to wear. 
And mine the tired hands relieved, 

Mine the heavy burden lightened, 
Mme, too, the weary mind and heart 

By your thoughtful kindness brightened. 

Bless you, my sister, bless you, dear. 

For what your hands have wrought. 
For your outreaching sympathy. 

Your loving, helpful thought. 
And may each thrust of the needle bright 

React like a precious seed 
That shall grow for aye t' enrich your life, 

A generous toiler's meed. 



6s 



HOMESICK PILLS 

Some bonbons? Oh, no, these aint bonbons. 

They're pills in this box, — great, big pills. 
I 'spose that you think 'twas the doctor 

That gave 'em to me to cure chills. 
Or something like that; but it wasn't. 

She gave 'em to me, mamma did. 
Just when we was starting for auntie's. 

You peek, while I lift up the lid. 

We're going to auntie's 'thout mamma; 

My auntie lives ever so far. 
An' mamma, she thought that, just maybe 

A-riding so long like we are, 
I might get a new kind o' sickness — 

A kind that makes children 'most cry 
An' not want to go off to auntie's, 

After all, — little girls big as I. 

They're mostly for me, all this boxful, 

'Cept I can give sister a few, 
An' any one else I think needs 'em. 

Now p'r'aps I w^ill give one to you. 
You just suck it slow, without crying, 

Until it is gone, don't you see? 
An' then you feel better, or mebbe 

You'll have to take more, — five or three. 

We've only took one, just to try 'em, — 

Sister she needed one more than I, 
For, when the train started this morning, 

She act'ally looked like she'd cry. 
We took white, but there's all sorts of colors; 

Some's pink, an' some's brown, an' some's red. 
They taste most like peppermint candy; 

But they are homesick pills, mamma said. 
66 



GREETING FROM OKLAHOMA 

'Tis a year ago, my sisters, 

One swift year of changing seasons, 

Since we gathered with each other, 

Planning for a coming parting. 

You with words of loving greeting, 

Messages of loyal friendship, 

Brave, sweet words of cheer and comfort. 

With your "God speeds" and your farewells, 

For me, looking toward the future. 

For me looking, scarcely seeing. 

Looking forward to the future. 

Half with hope and half with shrinking. 

Looking backward, loving, longing, 

Backward with sweet recollections 

Of the years we've been together, 

Lived and loved and worked together. 

How I loved you, oh my sisters, 
How I love you still and miss you; 
How through all this busy twelvemonth 
Your dear faces flit before me. 
How your voices seem to echo, 
Your good wishes cheer and gladden. 
How your love sustains and strengthens. 

That is why I send my greeting, 

Speak to you and try to tell you 

Something of my feeling for you, 

For you, my loved Ladies' Circle, 

And the church we are a part of, 

The dear Church for which we labor. 

Tell you that through all this twelvemonth 

Since the time we met for parting, 

I have felt the inspiration, 

Felt the upward, forward impulse, 

I received before I left you. 

67 



'TIs a part of what I carried 

With me to this sunny Southland. 

Part and parcel of my being, 

Are the truths I gleaned while with you, 

Shared with you while I lived with you, 

And still share, though distant from you. 

For the character we strive for, 
Rules of action that we stand for. 
For "Our Faith" is ours forever. 

Other scenes have shared my seeing. 

Other duties claim my doing, 

Strange, sweet flowers, and balmy breezes, 

Birds and fruits, and grain fields waving. 

Stranger neighbors, kindly faces. 

Claim my thoughts and share my action. 

Fill my heart and keep my hands full. 

But who once has been among you. 
One who ever shared your labors, 
Shared your love and faith and service, 
Ever feels herself one of you; 
Ever thrills with all your gladness. 
Glows with pride at your successes, 
Mourns with you whene'er you sorrow, 
Yearns to comfort you in trouble. 
Help, when pressing duties crowd you. 

That is why I send this greeting. 
That is why I share your welcome 
To the dear new friend and help mate 
Whom you meet to greet and honor; 
Feel with you the hope and gladness. 
Inspiration for the future 
That has come w^ith each dear pastor, 
Joy, and hope, and comfort mingled, 
Welcoming the pastor's family. 
68 



They will fill with life the parsonage, 
Add new worth and beauty to it, 
Bring new charms, and added meaning, 
To augment the old-time memories 
Clustering round it, clinging to it. 
Filling it with cheer and blessing. 

That is why I greet the baby. 
Who has come to claim your fealty, 
Share with other pastor's babies 
All your love and pride and hoping. 
Blessings on the pastor's baby! 

May you love them true and faithful 
As you ever loved the others, 
Love and serve them, kindly, loyal. 
May they love you kind and loyal 
As the others ever loved you, 
Love and serve you true and faithful. 
More I cannot wish or hope for, 
More would be too much to ask for. 

And may Heaven's benediction 
Visit you, be with you, ever: 
Keep you pure, aspiring, faithful. 
Keep you loyal, loving, helpful. 
This my word of hearty welcome. 
This my word of loving greeting. 



69 



STAY UP 

Jogging churchward one beautiful morning 
Though in danger of being quite late, 

Old "Maud" after each interruption 
Settled back to her family-horse gait. 

At last Baby Gail, quite disgusted 

With Maud's lagging gait, gravely said, 

"Get up, Maud, do get up and stay up," 
Emphatically shaking her head. 

I laughed when I heard the quaint saying. 
But I thought to myself, that's the way 

With some folks, who, like "Maud" seldom "get 
there". 
Just because they "get up" but don't stay. 



70 



TO THE MEADOW-LARK 

Where'er thou findest rest for thy brown feet, 
On weed, or post, or loity, naked limb, 

Upward thou liftest gleaming breast and throat, 
While rings, exultant, thy sweet morning hymn. 

Who findeth thee must aye, perforce, look up. 
Thy very posture seems to bid me stand; 

Thy note, intrepid, thrills my being through. 
Dispensing strength renewed to failing hand. 

Full many a joyous strain makes glad my heart. 
Thy message clear and sweet doth lead them all. 

Forth send it yet again, dear, dauntless one, 
My very soul leaps upward at thy call. 



71 



AT PARTING 

Amid the pain of parting, 

Comes this sweet thought with its cheer, 
There's nothing else but distance 

In our separation, dear. 

We're so sure of one another 

That we cannot even fear 
That anything but distance 

Could separate us, dear. 

Any other separation 

Would be harder far than this — 
With naught but paltry miles betw^een: 

We parted w4th a kiss. 

So though my heart aches for you, 

And I long to see you, dear, 
'Tis but distance separates us. 

And you still are very near. 



72 



FOR A LINEN SHOWER 

Midst a shower of spotless linen 

Fair and strong, firm, snowy white. 
Near full many a beauteous pattern 

Fine and pleasing to the sight, 
Is this bit of checkered towelling; 

It your efforts will requite. 
Will, with just the least assistance, 

Keep your glass and silver bright. 
And within your sunny kitchen, 

Shining with reflected light. 
Tucked away in some lone corner 

It will be contented quite. 



73 



"TEDDY" 

A slum Kindergarten there entered, 

Of our beloved nation, the pride. 
They arose to a child, wee street Arabs; 

"Pres'dent RoosVelt, good morning," they cried. 

What was there in those little faces 

To call up his childhood again, 
Or bring thoughts of his own happy home group 

To this manly leader of men? 

With a smile in response to their greeting, 

A courteous bend of his head, 
To those eager, expectant, slum children, 

"Some folks call me 'Teddy' ", he said. 

All honor to him who is able 

While doing a man's noble part 
To keep still in touch with the children, 

And be himself "Teddy" at heart. 



74 



ANGUS 

There clings to my heart, lo, this many a day, 
The memory dear of my boy's manly way, 
When needing assistance to further his play. 
''Will you help me, my mamma?" so oft would he say 
"Pretty soon. 
When you come to a stop?" 

And no matter how long was the waiting 

He never grew restless or sad ; 
Busy, happy, till I was quite ready 

To help him, my dear little lad. 

O, help me, my Father, do not say me nay. 
Help now, while the sky o'er my head is all gray, 
While hushed is the music of his noisy play, 
And there's naught I can do for him, day after day, 
My own boy — 
Though I've come to a stop. 

For no matter how^ long the lone waiting 

I would never be gloomy or sad. 
But would follow close on in the footsteps 

Of my own patient, brave, little lad. 



75 



HAPPY BIRTHDAY 

How can it be aught but happy, 

When, for many a day before, 
My sweet babies and their father 

Whisper secrets o'er and o'er; 
When, with all its dear surprises. 

The glad day is ushered in 
By a chorus of loved voices? 

Oh, the merry, welcome din! 

''Happy birthday, happy birthday!" 

O'er and o'er my loved ones say, 
"Happy birthday, happy birthday!" 

Sings my heart the livelong day. 
And while all my dearest dear ones 

Join to share its joys with me. 
Every birthday my life brings me, 

Will a happy birthday be. 



76 



IT FELL 

Now Katie — dear good soul is she — 

But in some way of late, 
The food she bakes, she says herself, 

"Is scarcely fit to ate." 
So to the kitchen I repaired 

To make a cake for tea, 
And as I deftly moved about 

My work, I felt — ah me! — 

That Katie looking on — poor girl ! 

Could never fail to see 
The striking difference there was, — 

So evident to me — 
Betw^een her way of doing things 

And mine, — and then beside, 
The final outcome of my skill — 

Alas for human pride ! 

In time I oped the oven door. 

I could scarce believe my eyes. 
For spite of all my obvious skill 

My cake had failed to rise. 
I sat me down and tried to think. 

Just fancy my chagrin 
When I remembered I'd not put 

The baking powder in. 

It now is very plain to me, 

Without a shade of doubt, 
That pride will fall — and cake not rise 

With the baking powder out. 
I've done that foolish thing but twice. 

Strange that the second time 
Should be just yester morning, while 

Composing this small rhyme. 

77 



A BLUE JAY AND AN ENGLISH WALNUT 

Now listen, dearie, while I tell 

A little story, that befell 

A walnut, when It fell pell-mell 

Beside a jay. 
The blue jay spied the walnut round, 
A-lyIng there upon the ground; 
He seemed to scarce know what he'd found, 

As there it lay. 

He viewed the nut this way and that. 
He tapped it with his beak, — "tat-tat". 
Oh, how he wished that it was flat. 

Or even thinner. 
He lost no time in vain regret. 
To work the pretty creature set. 
For he must haste If he would get 

That nut for dinner. 

He turned the tempting thing about; 
If only he were large and stout 
He'd crush the brittle shell, no doubt, 

With one swift stroke. 
He pecked upon the unyielding shell, 
Again, again; each stroke must tell. 
He certainly was doing well. 

Though 'twas no joke. 

He gave the nut another whack ; 

How long before the thing would crack ? 

How long withstand this fierce attack ? 

Just see it roll! 
Now surely It was growing weak — 
How cute he turns his head to peek ! 
There is a break — he thrust his beak 

Within the hole. 

78 



He flew with it upon the shed, 
Unto the highest ridge he sped, 
The nut was larger than his head, 

And looked so queer. 
He hit the ridge-pole with a whack. 
Presumably the nut to crack; 
He did not break it, but, alack! 

He lost it, dear. 

It rolled; he after it did walk. 
With stately dignity did stalk 
In silence, did not even squawk, 

To see it roll. 
Quite to the eaves the nut did spin, 
But which, think you, the race did win ? 
The jay flew off, his beak within 

That self -same hole. 



79 



MOTHERHOOD 

I passed before the window where she sat, 

A mother young and fair, 
The bloom of health on cheek and snowy brow, 

The sunlight in her hair. 

She heard my step, looked out and smiled, — her 
smile, 

But one of many charms, — 
Then dropped her eyes once more to the wee form 

Cradled within her arms. 

They linger in my heart these many days, — 
The bright, sweet smile I won. 

The nameless something in the look bestowed 
Upon her infant son. 

A smile, a glance, no more; but they revealed 
To me, as naught else could. 

Transcending every other human tie, 
Apart stands motherhood. 



80 



KILLING BUGBEARS 

A dear, cheery, practical sister and I 

Were discussing domestic affairs. 
She spoke of one thing that I liked very much, 

What she called it was ''killing bugbears". 
Whene'er things arose, as we all know they will, 

That filled her with dismay and dread. 
Attacking them singly she quickly dispatched them, 

And soon the last bugbear was dead. 

For bugbears, you know, are a very strange species. 

Not like unto aught else alive. 
On treatment that surely would craze us poor mor- 
tals 

The frailest of bugbears will thrive. 
The more they are disliked, neglected, shunned, 
dreaded, 

So much more attention they claim. 
Bugbears that haunt you and those that I dread 

Are like each to each but in name. 

Yet all without doubt will succumb to her treat- 
ment 

If taken in time in her way, 
And e'en if allowed to grow old and appalling, 

Still follow her method, I pray. 
For the moment you make an attempt to approach 
one. 

So soon it begins to grow small. 
And should you but fearlessly tackle the creature, 

Ten to one it is not there at all. 



8i 



But e'en if it is, make the onslaught, ne'er falter- 

'Tis strange how the creatures will act, — 
No matter how bold or forbidding its aspect 

A bugbear will yield if attacked. 
I'm sure she was wise, this dear, practical sister 

To promptly dispatch her bugbears, 
As others will find who but follow her leading 

In planning their household affairs. 



THE WREN'S ROUNDELAY 

I sought the garden for its stores of food. 

And hastening down the path with weary tread 

Scarce saw the robin's nest and fledgling brood. 
Nor paused to scent the apple blooms o'erhead. 

I filled my tired arms; the backward way 

I traced with lagging step and burdened heart, 

My household cares upon me heavy lay; 
Too hard, too joyless far, my weary part. 

A little wren alight before the door, 

Of wee box house that held its half-built nest, 
Had paused upon the threshold to outpour 

Its very soul in song. The busy quest 

For feather, twig or straw, had given way 
A little space to glad outburst of praise. 

I, hearing, caught the mood; that roundelay. 
So joyous, clear, sang in my heart for days. 



82 



A BREATH OF SPRING 

She lay on her couch, ill, a-weary 
Of weakness, and exile, and pain ; 

Within were but thoughts, sad, despondent, 
Without fell the cold, cheerless rain. 

There seemed nothing left but heart hunger. 
The longing for health, home, her own — 

The postman's quick step on the pavement, 
Rang out through the wind's dreary moan. 

Some flowers, and a dear, friendly letter 
From a neighbor, just over the way 

From the home that but now seemed so distant, 
He brought, and that drear, lonely day. 

Erstwhile filled with naught except waiting. 
Was robbed of its darkness and dread. 

"I send you a bit of my birthdaj^ — 
Yellow roses", the letter had said. 

The beauty, the fragrance, the greeting. 
They came like a breath of the spring; 

Anon tender memories throng her, 

Keeping time while the glad rain-drops sing. 



83 



TRY *EM IN A GOOD LIGHT 

Do you mind that there biggest oil paintin' 

Hangin' north of our sittin' room door? 
Well, that picture it once taught me somethin', 

That I never had thought of before. 
You would scarcely believe that I made it, 

But I alius loved pictures, you see. 
An' I used to drav\^ some when a school girl 

An' it sort o' come handy to me. 

So one winter my work wasn't heavy, 

An' I thought that I'd just try my hand 
At paintin' — I took a few lessons — 

Not many — an' you'll understand 
That I never sot out for an artist, 

I jest copied — I tell you it aint 
Very hard if you choose out good patterns 

With a teacher to help mix your paint. 

That big sheep picture — Jonathan chose it, 

An' both of us liked it real well — 
Was a chromo, but pretty an' nat'ral — 

He used to herd sheep an' ken tell. 
If you never have tried you can't reckon 

What a difference seein' it right. 
Can make in the look of a paintin' — 

Havin' it in the very best light. 

An' I've thought, havin' actually sensed it 

That that picture must have a good light, 
That p'rhaps 'twould make other things better- 

Takin' more pains to look at 'em right. 
There's some people an' things that'll look bad 

Any which way you sight 'em — but then 
If you can't get 'em in a real good light 

Try 'em in jest the best light you ken. 

84 



SWING, SWANG 

As I walked along the street 

The other day, 
An English sparrow fleet, 
From o'er the way, 
Flew and caught a dangling string where it hung. 
But the string was fastened, so the sparrow swung 
Back and forward, like a bell by sexton rung 
On Sabbath day. 

It did not get the string. 

It is true, 
But it had a lovely swing — 
Then it flew. 
There are strings to pick up almost any day, 
But plump sparrows do not often swing that way; 
Or at least I never see them ; do you, pray ? 
Tell me true! 



8s 



BUTTON, BUTTON 

"Button, button, who's got the button?" 
What is this you are asking me, pray? 
Those familar words 

Like a sweet refrain 
From my childhood days, 
Again and again, 
Have sung in my heart all day. 

''Who's got the button?" 'Tis past belief 
That so simple a query as this, 
Like to fairies of old. 

Should have the strange power 
With its magical spell. 
E'en for one short hour. 
Each vestage of age to dismiss. 

Yet in spite of my years — how many or few, 
Matters not to be counted to-night — 
With clasped hands extended 

I'm one in a row, 
Of wee, happy children, 
The while to and fro 
Before us with eyes dancing bright, 

Another child passes and says to each one, 
"Hold fast all I give you, hold fast" — 

To judge from grown-up children 

Seen all about, 
Our children in playing. 
Might leave that part out, 
The need of such teaching is past. 



86 



"Who's got the button? The game goes on, 
And, 'What shall I do to him, pray, 

For accusing you wrongfully — 

What is your choice?" 
Bethink you how often 
Does some friendly voice 
Propound such a question to-day? 

I share with the rest the thrill of suspense, 
I feel once again the delight. 
Once more vainly try, 

In no way to show — 

The while that I secretly 

Wish all to know — 

That my hands hide the button so bright. 

I even remember my dress — 'twas blue berege — 
See myself in its soft folds bedecked, 

With a mull apron white 

Worn over the blue 

To keep my bare arms 

From the night air and dew, 
For my gown was short-sleeved and low-necked. 

"When a man I will put away childish things" — 
Mind, I'm not finding fault with Paul — 
But a man may try, 

And a woman, too. 
And when we think 

We are well nigh through 
We'll find ourselves still in their thrall. 



87 



For there are some things that will not "stay put' 
As a child once expressed it, the dear, 
Of these, surely memory 
Claims the first place; 
For anon something comes. 

With a bright, well-known face. 
We had thought past and gone many a year. 

"Button, button," these magical words. 
Sing themselves through my heart, a refrain 
From my childhood days; 

The melody sweet 
Seems to carry me backward. 
With foot falls fleet, 
And make me a child again. 



88 



MUSIC 

When the mystic fays of Elfland 

Hovered round me at my birth, 
Eeach bestowing, or withholding, 

Aught of use to me on earth. 
Whatsoe'er of good or evil 

By them on me then was shed. 
She that held the gift of music 

Paused not at my cradle bed. 

Do you pity me, my sisters, 

For the harmony kept back? 
Do you deem my life all silent. 

Drear and lonely for the lack? 
Judge that naught can recompense me. 

Nothing my sad lot appease, 
Since my fingers ne'er stray lightly, 

Lovingly o'er ivory keys? 

Know you not that compensation 

Comes to them from childhood blind? 
Think you that to others smitten 

Mother Nature is less kind? 
It may be that her still voices 

Speak to me in clearer tone, 
Give to me a sweeter message. 

Lacking music of my own. 

Peradventure there's an anthem 

In the whispering summer trees, 
In the twittering of wee birdlings, 

In the sighing autumn breeze. 
That you hear not, trained to hearken 

For the organ's sounding tone, 
Songs that sing themselves in silence 

Caught by such as I alone. 

89 



And perchance because my babies 

Hear no sweet-voiced lullaby, 
I can compensate in kindness, 

Born of my deep sympathy. 
And may be that Mother Nature, 

With a parent's loving tact. 
Dulls my senses that I never 

Realize the whole I've lacked. 

It may be — but why continue 

In this strain? I but surmise — 
And, despite my protestations, 

I see pity in your eyes. 
Yet I know that o'er life's pathway 

As I daily pass along, 
Oft my heart is full of music, 

Though my lips send forth no song. 



90 



WHAT I SAW THIS MORNING 

Two old robins alight near the hammock — 

One redbreast atilt on each post, 
And a dear, dainty pair of wee phebes, 

Chirping soft in the ash, 

As, flew by like a flash, 
Gay young blue jays that seemed quite a host. 

As if not yet enough for one morning, 

Near the doorway, — what do you suppose? 

Right there on my new Russian rose-bush — 
O, so dainty and bright! — 
It had bloomed in the night — 

Was a perfectly beautiful rose. 

As a matter of course I must smell it; 

Bending low o'er the bloom, what a start 
Did it give me to find a wee creature — 

Very green, very snug, — 

Was it fly, bee or bug? — 
Buzzing there in the flower's golden heart. 

By how much the day's burden was lightened 

There is never a one of us knows, 
How the day to its ending was brightened 

By a bird's gleaming wing. 

By that tiny green thing 
In the heart of my red, red rose. 



91 



HANDY HOLDERS 

If round your waist this belt you place with care, 

With its two holders always dangling there, 

You need not use your kitchen apron fair 

When you in haste unto the stove repair; 

Nor wildly hunt for holders here and there — 

And oftentimes not find one an5rwhere, 

Until you reach a state well nigh dispair. 

You'll find these truly a convenient pair; 

For this I trust you kindly will forbear 

To censure me, the giver, that I dare 

Send something neither costly, nor yet fair. 

Of your glad Christmas time as my small share. 



92 



"MESSER'S BABY" 

'Twas *'once on a time", as the story books say, 
That good angels brought a wee man-child to stay 
With our stern professor and his cheery wife. 
Among those who rejoiced in the new little life 
Were a small gray-eyed girl and a golden haired 

boy. 
Who found much enhanced their sum total of joy 
By ''Messer's baby." 

Later on to these two a wee sister there came, 
Without any teeth and not even a name, 
But little and sweet and dimpled and red 
From her tiny toes to her small, round head. 
The rogues — do you doubt it? — were nothing loth 
To trade this dear little newcomer of? 
For Messer's Baby. 

'Tor he is so cute and noisy and bright, 
And he has teeth and is real big and white. 
You just ought to go there with us some day," 
So the children said," and see him play. 
He crows and he hollers when he sees us, 
Wish sister could laugh 'n make a great fuss, 
Like Messer's Baby. 

"Sometimes he gets cross — just a little, you know, 
And cries or else draws down his mouth — just so; 
His mamma she tells us, 'Bring baby here.' 
Then she says to him, smiling, 'Here's mamma, 

dear,' 
And you just ought to hear him squeal and laugh. 
Oh, he is so cute. We cant' tell you half 
'Bout Messr's Baby. 



93 



"Why, he is almost big enough to walk. 

The first thing you know he'll begin to talk. 

Do you know that his papa is not cross at all?" 

Say the prattlers, tr>'ing their fear to recall 

Of the man they had thought made to punish bad 

boys, 
But who laughs and romps and picks up scattered 

toys 

For Messer's Baby. 

Once when ver>^ sick was the dear little boy, 
To this tiny pair life seemed chary of joy. 
They went about silent with never a song 
Or frolicsome game, their small faces long. 
But when he was better a boisterous shout 
Proclaimed the glad news and how they — without 
doubt — 

Love Messer's Baby. 



94 



FOR A RECEPTION 

An hour like this does link together close 

The present and the past. 
With instant joys, beloved memories 

Crowd on us thick and fast. 

Anon we look deep into friendly eyes , 

E'en from our childhood dear, 
Or clasp in ours hands that have freed from thorns 

Our pathway year by year. 

Then turn about to meet and greet new friends, 

Whose lives now touch on ours, 
Heart ache and tears close mingled are with smiles, 

Tonight, thorns mid our flowers. 

New duties beckon these to fields remote. 

Our work still here we find; 
A part of our life's brightness goes with them, 

They leave of theirs behind. 

But let us haste to fill the breach they make, 

A loyal, loving band, 
About our untried pastor, as we wish 

Staunch stranger friends to stand 

Beside our dear ones wheresoe'er they bide. 

May brooding love and care 
Keep them and us henceforth. With God, we know, 

There is no here nor there. 



95 



NOT WISELY BUT TOO WELL 

There's not a thing In all the earth 

But Its excess Is bad. 

No one of us likes to be told, 

No one Is ever glad 
That she's too short, too thin, too nice, 

Too strict, too kind, too sweet, 
Too gay, too loving, or too good, 

Too pious, or too neat. 

But for some time I've plainly seen. 

What now I boldly tell, 
That many a woman does her work 

"Not wisely but too well". 
There, do not shake Indignant heads. 

Don't say, "Oh, no, Indeed!" 
But weigh the matter seriously, 

And to my claim give heed. 

You know your individual case 

Far better than do I. 
You do all wisely, naught too well? 

Flatly my charge deny? 
And so the coat does not fit you? 

First, please, the garment don 
To be quite sure there's no mistake, 

Then you may pass It on. 



96 



AUTUMN 

The wooded hillside blooms in rainbow tints, 
Well rounded stacks on every hand are seen, 
On red and gold the shimmering sunbeam glints. 
(We're using, dear, far too much kerosene.) 

The heat and cold alternate in an hour, 

The west wind sighs, somber each passing cloud. 

The time is short for every tender flower. 

E'en now dead leaves their failing roots en- 
shroud. 

The slanting sunbeams have not power to rout 

The growing chill, which slowly gathers strength. 
(Do you can pears with spices, or without? 

And do you think Sue's gown the proper length?) 
Each bush and tree now wears its gayest hue, 

The wild bird to his winter quarters hastes, 
The chilly nights are marked by heavy dew. 

(The little boys must have some warmer waists.) 

The frisky squirrel through these shortening days 

To fill his house with nuts has bravely toiled, 
Wee insects, too, have wrought in wonderous ways. 

(What did you say? That marmalade is spoiled?) 
Tall, wayside flowers cast abroad their seeds. 

Bold, saucy blackbirds flutter by in flocks, 
Or, chattering, settle on the roadside weeds. 

(Whom can I get to knit Tom's winter socks?) 

The hillside grasses to each other nod, 

A-down bare slopes a tiny streamlet trickles, 
Reflecting asters and fair golden-rod. 

(Those melon rinds are much too thin for 
pickles.) 
We hear the mourning dove's sad cry no more, 

(I surely thought I had more cauliflower. 
Have you repaired the outside cellar door? 

We should be cleaning house this very hour!) 
97 



The scai'let woodbine clings athwart the wall. 

(Somebody took all our late grapes last night. 
Your overcoat hangs in the upper hall.) 

Cold dew drops glisten in the clear moon light. 
An empty nest clings desolate and lone 

Upon the bough where late bird lovers lurked. 
The night wind through the swaying trees makes 
moan. 

(I am afraid my raspberry jam has worked.) 

All nature feels the ravages of time, 

A bird belated shivers in the breeze, 
The while his mates have sought a milder clime. 

(What was that, darling? Did the baby sneeze?) 
One last sweet spray of living mignonette 

I found near where the garden footpaths cross, 
(Those hens are eating our tomatoes yet, 

I hope they'll leave me some for chili sauce.) 

The shortening days, nights lengthening apace, 

A gaudy sumach flaunting on the hill. 
Through thinning leaves the bare twig's dainty 
grace. 

Brown stubble fields that thrifty plowmen till, 
The dead leaves dropping slowly one by one. 

The ripening corn, the dusky bees low humming. 
All, all betoken summer's reign is done. 

(Why will the iceman still persist in coming?) 



98 



"DIED AT SANTIAGO" 

Just one of our large daily papers, 

Addressed in a well known hand, 
With a paragraph marked, — and my memory 

To a glowing flame is fanned. 
"Twenty-four years old," the paper said; 

It seems 'twas but y ester morn 
They brought the news to the college 

That a man-child had been born. 

I can see him, our loved professor, — 

His father — with white brow bared, 
His handsome face aglow with new joy 

And pride, by each student shared. 
"He was strong and tall, full six feet four," 

A most magnificent height, — 
But "dead and buried at Santiago." 

Can it be that I read aright? 

My heart how it aches for his mother! 

O, the cruel fever scourge! 
Can nothing stay its deadly course. 

Nor still the piteous dirge 
Attending the direful carnage 

Of that far of¥ wave-kissed shore. 
E'en drowning the fierce din of battle, 

And mufl[ling the cannon's roar? 

I have looked at his sweet baby picture 

With its white gown and silken sash, 
And smiled at the memories clustering. 

That rise, but to fall, at the flash 
Of the telegraph's terrible message. 

Is there no other, better way 
To preserve a great nation's honor, 

The oppressor's hand to stay? 

99 



"His brother," — there now is one only, 

Alone, with a youth's ardent might, 
To bear burdens that two should have carried. 

Heavenly Father, is war ever right? 
O, when will man, made in God's image, 

Inhabit this fair earth in peace. 
Stand up in the power of his birthright, 

And say war shall evermore cease? 



ICX) 



THE CRYSTAL WEDDING 

The years they come, the years they go, 

Now grave, now gay, tardy or swift, 
Now bright with joy, now dark with woe, 

Like scenes upon a stage that shift. 
One decade past in rapid flight 

We pause midway the second ten. 
With these our friends, whose guests we are, 

And scan the years with loving ken. 

Each anniversary through the years 

Is the dispelling of a dream; 
So sang a poet of the past, 

And true in part his song doth seem, 
For wedded life oftimes begins 

In hopes on fairy facies staid; 
Young love is fed on rosy dreams, 

In glowing clouds is life arrayed. 

What have they brought, these fifteen years, 

Of good or ill, of loss or gain? 
What have they brought, these changing years, 

Of happiness or cruel pain? 
Each half-obliterated scene 

As slowly, tenderly we trace, 
We pause beside an open grave. 

We look in vain for some loved face; 

We sigh o'er youth's fair idols wrecked. 
O'er longed for heights yet unattained; 
We linger yearingly with good 

We saw, yea, that we might have gained. 
Freighted with dust of buried hopes. 

With plans that failed, each year that glides 
Into the past; nay, let them go. 

Let the dream fade the real abides. 
lOI 



The present with its wealth untold 

Of all the best that life can bring, 
Husband and wife, bound each to each; 

True friends that but the closer cling, 
Because of aught of wrong or ill 

That changing fortune may bestow; 
That heaven on earth, a happy home 

Where gladsome children live and grow; 

Days filled from dusky dawn till eve 

With useful toil and helpful care, 
And spite of duties manifold 

In the world's hopes and needs a share. 
Let dreams depart, enough remains, 

To them, to us; the present hour 
With duties rife; on either hand 

The chance to use our every power; 

Occasion ripe for earnest strife, 

For labor for the common weal, 
For work of mind, and hand and voice ; 

And may the future set its seal 
Of sanction on the work performed, 

Its impress still on life and heart, 
And oft the circling seasons bring. 

Of this glad eve the counterpart. 



1 02 



THREE IN A ROW 

They sat — tit, tat, toe, — 

Three birds in a row. 
And what were the three, think you? 

You never can guess? 

Well, I will confess 
That I did not expect you to. 

For whoever heard 

Of a humming bird 
Perched low on a twig with two others, 

In broad daylight, 

All quite plain in sight. 
Three tiny, young green-and-gold brothers? 

Upon a small tree, 

On one twig, sat the three. 
In our flower garden only last summer. 

Where I frequently spy 

A gay dragon-fly. 
Or a moth, but not often a hummer. 

And if one does come^ 

It flits by with its hum , 
Or darts in and out, here and there. 

Now making a dash. 

Now of? like a flash. 
As if made but to move light as air. 

They quite took my breath, 

Those three, still as death, 
I scarcely could move from surprise. 

I am telling to you. 

Something perfectly true. 
If I can believe my own eyes; 



103 



Though it really did seem, 

Very much like a dream, 
That glimpse of those three fluffy things. 

At rest on a shrub, 

Each dear little chub, 
With tiny, bright, motionless wings. 

OUR NEIGHBOR 

He had a kind, informal way 

Of dropping in as he went by. 
To ask how we had passed the night, 

Or just to know the reason why 
His friend had not attended post; 

To share with us a bit of news; 
To see ''our little man's" new pets, 

To help dispel a comrade's blues. 

No wonder that we miss him now, 

When he no longer passes by. 
No more dispenses friendly news. 

Or gives his ready sympathy. 
No wonder that our eyes grow dim; 

No wonder that we long to bear 
A portion of the grief and loss 

His sorrowing wife and children share. 

'Twere passing strange did we not feel 

An added impulse toward some deed 
Of kindliness unto a friend, 

Of sympathy to those in need; 
More readily stretch forth a hand; 

More quickly hear the helpless cry — 
In memory of our neighbor, friend, 

Who oft dropped in when going by. 



104 



HEROES 

O' course I admire your generals an' sech, 

Pres'dents, statesmen, an' admirals, too. 
All them that jest knows the best way how to fetch 

A country in danger safe through ; 
That knows how to fight, when there's fightin' on 
hand. 

That's courageous, far-seein', an' brave, 
That's nuther a-feared on the sea or the land, 

An' aint even scart o' the grave. 

O' course they are great men an' heroes, all right, 

T' admire an' look up to, — an' yet, 
My feelin's goes out more to-wards them that fight 

In the ranks, side by side, an' don't get 
Much share in the glory, an' honor, an' fame, 

No matter how brave er how true. 
My feelin's goes out to-wards them you don't name, 

I call some of them heroes, too. 

An 'then, besides them there is others that strives, 

Here an' there, agin all sorts o' wrong. 
The world through; you know 'em, — them brave 
folks whose lives 

From beginnin' to endin' are strong, 
Unselfish, an' cheerful, an' gentle an' pure; 

Them that fights the gant wolf from the door 
Day in an' day out, — God knows what they en- 
dure — 

That are patient and stanch to the core. 

Them that does what they have to do, year after 
year, 

Uncomplainin', an' hopeful, an' strong, 
Kep' up from within, without ever a cheer 

From the crowd, nary trumpet or song, 

105 



No excitement ner nothin' that most on us needs — 
Or has got in our heads that we do — 

To encourage and help spur us on to good deeds, 
I call such as them heroes, too. 

It's comparative easy to keep in the line 

When the crowd is a-marchin' our way. 
When in soul-stirrin' strains a drum and fife jine, 

And we're longin' to be in the fray. 
But heroes that counts most are them, seems to me. 

That has got enough courage to fight 
All alone, agin odds, where there's no one to see. 

An' keep on — jest because they are right. 



1 06 



UNITY CIRCLE 

A minister's daughter am I, 

In the church was I born and reared, 
Each phase of its life and work 

To me has become endeared. 
I e'en like the church itself 

From doorstep to tapering spire ; 
I like the minister, and the flock, 

The organ and the choir. 

I like the Ladies' Circle, 

And I like the name it bears, 
The Unity which here exists 

That time nor change impairs. 

And I like to know that we 

Are a part of a goodly throng 
Of other loyal women 

Who are helping the work along. 
I like our president, bless her! 

We feel a new lease of life 
With her skilful lead augmented 

By our dear, new, pastor's wife. 

I like the way that we meet — 

From house to house, here and there; 

I like our socials and suppers, 
I like our annual fair; 

I like the nickle collections. 

And I like the annual dues; 
I like to have the women 

Bring work, just what they choose, 
To be perfectly free to sew, 

To embroider, to mend or knit, 
Darn stockings — or anything else, 

Or restfuUy, quietly sit. 
107 



I like the items of news, 

The business and all that, 
I like the talks, and readings, 

I like — without gossip — the chat. 

I like e'en the talk about cakes. 

Baked beans, salads, pickles and meat. 
Chicken-pie, jelly, Boston-brown-bread, 

Or anything else good to eat. 
I sometimes think that I like 

This circle the very best. 
Of any part of the church 

Tho' well do I like all the rest. 

And I like not only the circle, 

But the links which form the chain. 

I like to feel we are bound 
By ties that will remain. 

That will aye to us be helpful, 

Be forever a sacred bond, 
A forward, an upward impulse, 

An influence reaching beyond 
Just what we are doing now, 

That will help us remember we stand 
For all that is highest and best. 

I like to be one of this band. 



io8 



FOR A HANDKERCHIEF BAG 

Down into this bag 

Your handkerchiefs go ; 
Not those freshly ironed — 

Just soiled ones, you know. 
'Tis quite empty now? 

You really think so? 

It does appear empty, 

In that you are right, 
But there are some things, 

Not perceived by the sight. 
Despite its appearance 

The bag is full quite. 

You may peer within 

And find nothing to view, 

But 'tis full to the top 
And filled just for you. 

With Christmas good wishes, 
And love fond and true. 



109 



UNCHANGED 

It is easy to say we love new friends, but words 
can never trace out all the fibers that knit us to the 
old. 

George Eliot. 

You say all things change with the years ; 

In much I to others defer, 
But in this you are surely at fault, 

The old friends are just as they were. 

As in the dear days of my youth, — 

How the retrospect makes my eyes blur, — 

They answer my call, one by one. 

Old friends who are just as they were. 

Respond with an influence sweet, 

As the odor of spices and myrrh. 
I have only to cover my eyes 

To see them all just as they were. 

Then prate ye of change and unrest, 
And in proof thereof yourself bestir, 

My heart, with a thrill, yet insists 
My old friends are just as they were. 

All else may be changed by the years, 

As into the past swift they whir, 
All else save old friends, true and dear, 

The old friends are just as they were. 



no 



WHAT IS THAT IN THINE HAND? 

I've been reading the story of Moses 
Called of God his slave brethren to lead 

From their bondage to freedom; from darkness 
To light; from Egypt's fell greed 

To a promised land, flowing with plenty, 
The Lord's gift unto Abraham's seed. 

And I read how he, questioning, waited, 

Reluctant to take trust so great. 
Would his brethren believe the Lord called him? 

And could he, slow of speech, e'er create 
Needed courage to shatter their fetters, 

Powder to raise slaves to man's high estate? 

The story goes on how Jehovah 

Once again urged him boldly to stand, 

And, secure in God's promised assistance. 
To go forth and possess the fair land. 

Moses wavered; again the Lord answered 
And said: "What is that in thine hand?" 

What is that in thine hand? Still God asketh — 
E'en as he questioned Moses of yore. 

The command unto us to go forward, 
Using that which we have, nothing more, 

Is imperative now and will ever 
Unto promised lands open the door. 

We, too, sore dismayed, oft like Moses, 
Weakly waver, and needlessly blight 

Other's lives and our own, while we question 
What are we, and dare such boldly fight 

In life's battles, 'gainst error and falsehood, 
For charity, freedom and right? 



Ill 



Wouldst thou choose for thyself thine own duties, 
Other talents, new tools, wider fields 

Than those thou hast, ere thou wilt labor? 
Who the rod his hand holds bravely wields 

In the place where he standeth, unto him 
Life freely her rich blessings yields. 

What is that in thine hand? The old question. 

What is that in thine hand, brother mine? 
Does it matter what tool thy hand holdeth 

So be that, God-given, 'tis thine? 
And thy task, be it noble or lowly. 

Was set thee; make thou it divine. 

What is that in thine hand ? The same question 
Re-repeats itself throughout all time. 

And the answer comes up from the peoples 
Of all lands, every nation, each clime. 

Till the varied response from God's children 
Heavenward blends in an anthem sublime. 

Then let us go forward, undaunted. 

As Moses of old with his rod. 
Each using that which his hand holdeth — 

Some soaring, the while others plod — 
Each doing that which his hand findeth, 

Co-workers together with God. 

For we have been called of Jehovah 
To help free mankind from sin's thrall. 

If, perchance, not to lead, then to follow; 
In life's field there is work mete for all. 

And now, as of old, down the ages. 
Still humanity's need is God's call. 



112 



CHRISTMAS BELLS 

The bells that usher the Christmas in 

Me a double message bring; 
And as I list to the glad refrain, 

My thoughts in unison sing. 
They ring not only for that far day 

When the blessed Christ was born, 
But tell that my own sweet mother's eyes 

Oped to earth one Christmas morn. 

The Christmas bells, with their two-fold chime, 

Thrill me with peace from above. 
Commingling the sweet Christ spirit, 

And the beautiful mother love. 
My heart expands with new joy and hope, 

While generous thoughts upspring; 
I fain would clasp the world in my arms, 

To each soul some treasure bring. 

I long for a Fortunatus purse 

With its wealth of shining gold. 
Or that my fingers possessed the skill 

Of wee fairy folk of old, 
That I might give to the dear ones all, 

In my home nest and far away. 
The things they would choose above all else, 

This beautiful Christmas day. 

Scarce gold enough enters my slender purse 

To eke out life's demands, 
And my daily task is oftentimes, 

O'er much for my tired hands. 
But scant supply, nor unceasing toil. 

Can fetter the loving thought, 
Or check the flight of the longing heart. 

With tenderest wishes fraught. 

113 



In spirit I leap o'er all barriers 

That stand 'twixt mine own and me, 
And deal out to all with a lavish hand, 

Rich treasures from land and sea; 
And I wish, with a yearning, heart-felt prayer, 

That the best of the warmth and cheer 
Of this joyous, blissful Christmas time, 

Keep my dear ones all the year ! 



J14 



OUR WORLD IS BUT A SCHOOL 

Why are so many things in life 

So very hard to bear? 
Why does so much each day arise 
To sorely vex 
Deeply perplex, 
And claim our constant care? 

Why so much that we long to know, 

But cannot understand? 
Questions of deep moment that rise 
To harrass us, 
Embarrass us, 
Problems on every hand? 

While I thus mused in weary frame 

My daughter came from school 
With many a plaint of tasks assigned 
That hurried her, 
And worried her, 
Of hard, perplexing rule. 

I stopped her murmurs with a kiss, 

Smiled at her troubled glance: 
"If all the work they give at school 
Was old to you. 
Easy to do, 
How would you then advance? 

*'You need hard tasks to try your powers, 

Your utmost skill to prove; 
Some lesson new for every day, 
'Tis better so, 
'Tis thus you grow, 
Thus do you onward move." 



115 



We're children of a larger growth, 

Our world is but a school; 
The answer to her childish plaint — 
Of reason why, 
Of purpose high 
In each perplexing rule — 

Gave also answer to my heart. 

And stilled its deep unrest. 
The very things that hardest seem 
Are wisely sent, 
With kind intent, 
To help us in our quest. 

For we grow only as we strive; 

By effort power's obtained. 
From each attempt to overcome 
Is gathered strength. 
Until at length. 
The longed-for heights are gained. 



u6 



LITTLE GERTRUDE'S CATASTROPHE 

Now listen, my dears, and hear me tell, 

Of a strange accident that befell 

A blue-eyed girlie I know full well; 

What wouldn't she give to undo it! 
The way it happened was in this wise; 
You'll surely say 'twas a great surprise. 
Enough to make you open your eyes, 

Had you been there to view it. 

Mamma was setting the table for tea; 
Of course, wee Gertrude wanted to be 
Close to her mamma, so as to see 

What she was getting for supper. 
So she brought her very best picture book. 
And to a side table a high stool took, 
Where, perched on the top, all ready to look, 

She settled herself to watch her. 

'Twas an old table, the fall-leaf kind. 

The dear little girl — none sweeter you'll find — 

At the head of this table, fixed quite to her mind. 

Sat resting her elbow upon it. 
The table was full as table could be, 
Six lamps — two lighted so you could see — 
A dish of apple sauce ready for tea, 

A plate of dough-nuts beside it; 

There was some butter-milk, too, in a pan, 
A nice healthful drink for child or man. 
And apples — find better fruit if you can — 

Some other things, too, I think. 
Brother came in to show what he'd found. 
And Gertrude, turning at the sound, 
Leaned hard on the table, which with a bound, 

Tipped over before she could wink. 
117 



You would have thought brother'd go into fits, 
Mamma, too, nearly came losing her wits, 
Seeing her best dish broken in bits, 

And plenty of other things, too. 
Surely you never saw such a mix! 
Not a whole lamp to be found out of six. 
Hardly a thing in the lot you could fix. 

What in the world could they do? 

Such a muss there never was seen before, 
Broken glass, butter-milk spilt on the floor, 
Dough-nuts and apples and many things more, 

Swimming in kerosene oil. 
One of the lighted lamps went out quite. 
The other was burning with a dim light. 
Mamma put it out, — I'm quite sure I'm right, — 

And then commenced her toil. 

But she did not even mind the work, 

So thankful was she that no one was hurt, 

As she hurried about to clean up the dirt, 

And finish the supper, too. 
Brother kept rushing from side to side; 
Gertrude stood watching, her blue eyes wide; 
"I didn't know I would do it," she sighed, 

''I'm sure I didn't mean to." 



ii8 



WHERE ARE YOUR FLOWERS? 

A seed was dropped by childish hands 
In garden path; a hopeless place 

For growth, for even life, it seemed. 

How could it dream of strength and grace? 

Yet in this unpropitious spot 

It kept a sturdy hold on life, 
Up through the crust pushed a green head, 

Nor shrank back from the coming strife. 
Though often it was trampled down 

By foot of heedless passer by, 
As oft it bravely raised itself 

To greet again the friendly sky. 

Battered and bruised its form became, 

Scanty and pale its foliage, 
Yet nothing from without had power 

The inner purpose to assuage. 

I stood before the dauntless vine 

At autumn time, held spell-bound there 
With admiration and amaze — 

It had produced a blossom fair. 
I bowed before that plant ashamed, 

Recounting o'er my half used powers. 
Where were my victories, hardly gained 

Against such odds? Where were my flowers? 

I left the spot with firmer tread; 

Life had new meaning from that hour. 
And much that I thenceforth attained 

Was mine because of that fair flower. 



119 



SEEING PRETTY THINGS 

My mother had a happy way . 

Of seeing every pretty thing. 
She always saw the sunset's glow, 
The shadows floating cloudlets fling; 
A bud, a shell, a bit of moss, 

A dainty spray of cypress vine; 
Against the azure of the sky 

Where slender, leafless twigs entwine. 

Saw tiny rainbows span the spheres 

Of shining dew on leaf and blade; 
A fragile insect's gauzy wing, 

The shifting play of light and shade 
In sky and cloud, on bluff and plain; 

A dove's smooth breast, the sumach's glow, 
The "little wheel's" made in the pool 

By sparkling raindrops falling slow. 

Midst closely nibbled meadow grass 

She spied a daisy still uncropped; 
She saw a fern, a pebble bright, 

A feather by some song bird dropped ; 
A flower in unaccustomed place; 

The touch of color on the hill 
From autumn leaves by frost lips kissed. 

Beside the way a trickling rill. 

The old, sweet childhood days are gone. 

My mother, now a memory 
From out the past — the dear, dead past; 

Yet o'er and o'er comes back to me 
With all its power for happiness. 

The wealth of cheer and peace it brings, 
The influence of her blessed gift 

Of always seeing pretty things. 
1 20 



WE GIVE OUR BEST 

Such days as these do link together close 

The present and the past. 
With instant joys, beloved memories 

Crowd on us thick and fast. 

Anon we look deep into friendly eyes 

E'en from our childhood dear, 
Or clasp in ours hands that have cleared from 
thorns 

Our pathway, year by year, 

Then turn about to meet and greet new friends 

Whose lives but touch on ours. 
Smues, laughter, repartee we share 
Of social life the flowers. 

Again we gladly gather, one and all, 

Our friend and honored guest 
To welcome here, the while we proffer her 

Of all we have the best. 

Though our loved, common landscapes, 

Our simple pastimes all. 
Our boat-rides, and our parties. 

Might on the senses pall. 
Of one who comes upon them 

From out the sunset land. 
Where winds are perfume freighted. 

The scenery most grand. 

She loves our homely pleasures; 

Our bids to drive, or sup. 
Hold such a wealth of welcome, 

It many a lack makes up 



121 



To her who comes among us 

Back to her girlhood's home, 
Whose heart has never wandered, 

Howe'er her feet may roam. 

A trip out to Mojeska's lovely ranch, 

Is quite beyond our reach 
Nor can we even hope to spend the day 

A-fishing at Long Beach. 

But we have artists here along some lines, 

And love them, too, right well. 
And there are fish of various kinds to catch. 

At home, so I've heard tell. 

We don't boast of our climate overmuch. 

We've shared two months so hot 
They'd make most any climate mild and warm 

Spread through a year. Think not? 

To Catalina Island 

No boat of glass we float. 
It matters not, a good steam launch 

A great success we vote. 
We can't see "Lucky" Baldwin's ranch 

All hands in a tallyho, 
But we may go to Bonnie Brae — 

There's Oestrich's bus, you know. 

We have no lofty mountains 

With summits bleak and chill 
To offer, but we have instead 

Our dear old "Johnson's Hill." 
No dock of large proportions. 

The longest ever known, 
Have we, but there's our mill-dam. 

Its massive logs moss-grown. 

122 



Round "the loop" we'd fain go riding 

To the Soldier's home, some day. 
We'll go past Lane's to Glen Farm 

And come home the other way. 
Our "Lover's Lane" is cherished 

By many a happy pair. 
What think you any clime can show 

That will with it compare? 

We boast of no "Old Baldy" 

Or snow capped peaks like that, 
But point with pride to old bald heads, — 

Each covered by a hat. 
Some prate of deadly centipedes, 

Tarantulas and fleas, 
Of scorpions and rattlesnakes. 

We've naught to match with these. 

Then there are surfs and billows, 

The tides and other things, — 
All forms of living water. 

We have our mineral springs. 
In place of grand old ocean, 

Wild waves and rock-bound coast 
We have fair "Lake Nakomis" 

Our new-made pride and boast. 

These days indeed do link together close 

The present and the past. 
Upon the future, too, an added glow 

Of color oft they cast. 

And so we cherish all these gala days; 

Links they of one bright chain 
Which binds us each to each, and one to all, 

By ties that shall remain. 



123 



There's brightness In the golden sunset land, 

And sunshine here we find; 
A part of ours will go away with her, 

She'll leave of hers behind. 



HER SECRET 

From each dimpled arm was the small sleeve rolled, 

As perched on a chair by the table, 
With curls tucked back and eyes very bright. 
Sat a wee girl who tried, all she's able. 
To help mama make 
Sister's birthday cake, 
Quite happy to share a real secret. 

When at last it was done, this wonderful cake. 

And placed on a shelf in the cupboard, 
Demurely she sat by the window and watched 
All dressed in her best mother-hubbard. 
As sister drew near. 
Said this girlie so queer ; 
'Tm going to tell Mary my secret." 

"But a secret is something that we don't tell; 

It would not be one if you told it." 
We said to this embryo woman so full 
Of her secret, she scarcely could hold it. 
'Til tell this," she said. 
With a shake of her head, 
"And have something else for a secret." 



124 



TO JOELA 

Just four years old to-day — 

Four sunny, happy years, 
Filled full of childish play. 
Of mingled smiles and tears. 
May your life bring joy 
With few griefs to annoy, — 
May your smiles outnumber your tears! 

Oh, joyous, blissful space, 

When the pain from a tangled curl, 
Or a doll with a broken face. 
Are the griefs of our little girl. 
May your life be bright 
It's sorrows yet light 
As the years hurry by apace! 

Four busy, gladsome years. 

With a glimpse of womanly ways, 
Your sweet *'help" e'en now cheers, 
Through the crowded, hurrying days. 
Ever do your small part. 
Prompted by that kind heart, 
And the future will bring you no fears! 

As the years to eternity whirl, 
I shall ever fervently pray, 
'Bless and keep the darling girl. 

Who is four years old to-day." 
From your gray eyes, sweet, 
To your dear dimpled feet, 
We love you, our own little girl! 



125 



"HUSBAND'S NIGHT*' 

You have asked of me a message, 
Asked of me a word of greeting 
As to-gether we assemble, 
Meet to-gether with our husbands 
For an hour of social pleasure, 
Hour of feasting and rejoicing, 
Hour of toasts and songs and laughter, 
Hearty fellowship and good cheer. 

Are there things that I can tell you, 
Any words for me to utter, 
That will give you joy or pleasure. 
Add a little to this meetings? 
Gladly would I search and find them, 
Gladly would I choose and sort them. 
Speak to you the best and fairest 
Words that can be found for speaking. 

For I long to do your bidding. 
Bring to you some gift or treasure 
In return for all your kindness. 
Hospitality and kindness. 
Me a stranger, a new comer 
Taken to you hearts and hearth-stones, 
Made to feel myself one of you. 
Welcomed, entertained, and feasted. 
With my lips I utter "Thank you" 
From my very heart I thank you. 

Do you husband's doubt my meaning. 
Wonder that I cared to join them. 
That I deemed it worth the effort, 
To meet with these dear club women? 



126 



Do you smile that I feel honored, 
Smile that I am pleased and honored 
To be counted in the club roll, 
Still be counted in the club roll? 

Gladly share I the devotion, 
To this club and all its workings, 
Share its uplift, education. 
Worry, work and inspiration, 
That are shared by all its members. 

It is long ago that Paul wrote 
For a wife to ask her husband 
All the things she fain would hear of, 
All the things she finds she knows not, 
Stay at home and ask her husband. 

Now the husbands are from home more, 

Now the husbands they are busier; 

If we stay at home to ask them 

Oft they are not there to answer ; 

Or, perchance, they have not read it, 

Have not read the thing we ask them, 

Or have read it and forgotten, 

Or they have not time to tell us. 

Or they think it does not matter, 

Will not pay for time spent on it. 

And the women, too, are different. 

Have more things they fain would hear of, 

And they find more things they know not, 

Ask more questions, seek more knowledge. 

Surely our way is far better. 
Surely Paul himself would think so, 
Better far for us to study, 
Better far to choose our reading. 
Share it, too, with other women. 
Search and sift and think to-gether; 
127 



Use the best and leave the other; 
Share the best things with our husbands, 
As they share with us their knowledge, 
Give us what they have to offer, 
That they think worth while to offer. 
So we still shall grow to-gether, 
Each augment, and help the other, 
Still have time to do our duties, 
We more oft at home, they elsewhere. 

Do you understand, these women, 
These your wives, these noble women, 
When they hurry through their labors. 
Snatching here and there a moment 
Through the day for books and lessons, 
For the lessons or the duties 
Of the coming club-day meeting? 
Do you wonder at their efforts, 
At their loyalty, devotion, 
Wonder that they try to study. 
Try to grapple with large problems? 
'Tis because you are not women, 
Are not members in good standing, 
Never tried 'gainst odds of all kinds 
To conduct a business meeting; 
Tried to read with children playing. 
Study with your children crying. 
Never felt the thrill of victory 
As you grasped some knotty question 
Amid household cares and labors; 
Shared its uplift with the others; 
Left your toil and cares behind you, 
Shut and locked the door upon them. 
To be met and conquered later. 



128 



You have missed much that you are not, 
Never were and never can be, 
Working members in good standing, 
Of a women's club, my brothers. 

Anything that's worth the having 

Certainly is worth some effort. 

Anything that costs an effort 

Valued is and prized and treasured. 

And these tastes of books and music, 

Views of other times and places, 

Glances into public welfare, 

All are prized and used and treasured 

As they are not by the idle, 

By the women who have leisure, 

Who have leisure, but who have not 

Duties that press hard upon them 

To be sorted, readjusted. 

Shifted, left, or hurried over 

To make time for other duties. 

We are better wives and mothers 
For this club and for its lessons, 
We are better friends and neighbors 
For our meetings with each other; 
We are better cooks and house-wives — 
Can you doubt it from this evening? 
We are stronger, braver, happier, 
Readier to cope with evil. 

You are better men and neighbors. 
Better business men and husbands, 
More successful, more progressive. 
That you do not have to teach us 
All the things we find we know not. 
Every man of you is happier, 



129 



Going to his place of business, 
Laboring and earning money, 
Doing each his manly duties 
Following each a man's vocation. 
We are happier, too, and wiser, 
Learning what we can without you. 
Learning with you and without you, 
And still finding things we know not. 

We are better for our meetings, 
And you, too, are better for them, 
Better in that we are better, 
Happier in that we are happier, 
And although you are not women. 
Are not members in good standing. 
Yet our club is better for you, 
Better for your help and interest, 
For your aid, co-operation, 
For your kindliness and patience. 

That is why we've met to-gether. 
Why we planned to dine to-gether, 
Planned the toasts and songs and laughter; 
That we may go on to-gether, 
Hand in hand go on to-gether, 
Loyal women, loyal husbands, 
Faithful friends, devoted neighbors, 
Hand in hand go on to-gether 
Working for the common welfare, 
WelfaTre of our homes and households, 
Of our town, our homes, our children. 

We shall all be better for it. 
For this meeting here to-gether, 
We, the Women's Club of Marshall, 
You our husbands and co-workers, 
Helpmates, though you are not women, 
Are not members in good-standing. 

130 



DECEMBER loTH 

Small need have I declare, my sister, why 
That this day standeth forth more dear and fair, 
Than others. Winter's harshness hath not power 
To drive away its charm, nor yet oncoming 
Mirth and cheer t' outshine it; slight need to tell 
Of past delights, of girlhood's dreams and fears 
Shared each with each, to draw us closer still, 
And still^ more close to-gether. Small need me- 

thinks 
To speak me of the love that doth but grow 
With growth of time, and gathers strength apace. 
Yet I delight to think me of those days, 
Those mutual joys and pains that bound us fast. 
And fain would I show forth in some dear way 
Th' affection welling up and reaching out 
As to encompass you with tenderness. 
Like to encircling arms thrown round about 
Your form to shield and hold you, Oh my sister! 



131 



IF YOU DO SAY YES 

She'd come to see the baby 
At a small playmate's house, 

And all the time she sat there 
Just as still as any mouse. 

Her aunty who was with her 

Thought her behaviour strange. 

She had talked so much about it, 
What could have worked the change? 

"How do you like the baby? 

Just touch its tiny head. 
Shall I ask if we may take it home 

To keep?" the aunty said. 

"O, no," said the wee maiden, 
And shook back a stray curl. 

Her aunty could not understand 
This riddle of a girl. 

''I thought you'd want the baby, 
Your surely told me so," 
Said Aunty, "When I asked you 
How came you to say no?" 

What do you think she answered, 
I am sure you cannot guess: 

"They never let you have one 
Even if you do say yes." 



132 



THANKSGIVING 

We praise them brave old Pilgrims 

Who could give thanks 'n pray — 
Hungry, half froz, 'n' homesick, 

That first Thanksgivin' day; 
But with all our modern fixin's, 

More'n likely we uns sigh 
'Cause our chicken ain't a turkey, 

An' there ain't two kinds of pie. 

Them Pilgrims crossed the ocean, 

Sailin' many a weary mile, 
For blessin's you an' me have had 

The hull endurin' while. 
Encounterin' many a hardship 

Uncomplainin'ly, they sought 
Things we don't half appreciate, 

Because it's what we've got. 

I know" all folks ain't that away, 

That lots be it ain't so queer. 
For, someway things way ofE somewheres 

Looks brighter'n things that's near. 
We're sech far sighted creeters, 

'Pears we get a clearer view 
O' things away beyent our reach, 

Than o' what we're closest to. 

'S if we had two kinds o' glasses, 

An' we used the far ones most — 
Real bright uns to see off with. 

But blue uns to look clost. 
I reckon, though, if somethin' 

'D show^ all sides to us. 
That we'd be mighty thankful 

That our lot wa'n't no wus. 

133 



"Jest count your blessin's," people says — 

We haint got time to do it; 
There's sich an everlastin' lot 

We never could git through it. 
I don't mean folks ain't grateful, 

And I aint a-finding fault, 
But we've got so many blessin's 

We don't sense 'em like we'd ought. 

But from this on I 'low to have 

More thankfulness in mine, 
An' look through glasses that're bright,- 

Or less help to make things shine, — 
Not find fault with m.y chicken, 

Nor want two kinds o' pie. 
An' keep countin' of my blessin's. 

An' countin' till I die. 



134 



WILD WHITE POPPIES 

Dear, dainty blossoms, 

Bursting on my sight 
Along the road side 

Like a gleam of light, 
Sk)rward in beauty 

Lifting petals white. 

How did you guess it, 
Pale, sweet poppy band, 

That homesick, troubled. 
In a stranger land, 

I needed you, dears? 
Did you understand? 

Why else your greeting. 

Silently bestowed 
Upon me, lonely. 

Passing, o'er the road? 
Your fragile flower cups 

Lifting up my load? 

For that I loved you. 
Blessed your subtle skill; 

Your pure completeness 
Set my soul a-thrill. 

Each veined petal 

Charms, delights me still. 



135 



FIFTY YEARS 

*Tis fifty years ago to-day, just fifty years, 
That close a mother clasped you to her breast, 
The while your father gazed upon his first-born 

there 
Within her arms, wee birdling in its nest. 
And now again, methinks, they cast a downward 

look 
From Heaven's parted gates, o'er joyed to find 
You, with the fulness of completed manhood 

crowned. 
Your stalwart form by dimpled arms entwined. 

Just fifty years, — 'tis half a century, no less — 

When looking forward, long, but short when past — 

Fifty swift years of life already left behind. 

Yes, fifty years, each briefer than the last. 

Endless to childish fancy one whole day appeared, 

From morn to eve, from sunset until dawn, 

Full time, in sooth, t' accomplish all one would, but 

now — 
The new year dawns apace, and lo 'tis gone. 

Just fifty years to-day, it is, since first 5^our life. 

Became a part of that onmoving stream 

Of human life, that flows for good or ill, joy, pain, 

Now stern reality, now golden dream ; 

And count it not, dear heart, cause for regret alone, 

If oft your life has been o'er hard and drear; 

Its darkest hour, nay doubt not, compensation hath 

In God's own way, for every blinding tear. 

Oft times when crowd our happy children round 

your knees. 
Or lift to you sweet faces to be kissed, 
There comes a pang of sorrow, tempering my joy. 
Thinking of all that your sad childhood missed ; 

136 



A sorrow not unmixed with gratitude and pride, 
That where a smaller soul had garnered pain, 
Austerity, and lasting bitterness, you reaped 
But strength and tenderness, your loss, our gain. 

For fifty years your life, its weakness and its 

strength, 
Has mingled with the nation's throbbing life; 
Erstwhile with comrades brave 'gainst common foe 

you stood, 
And oft, with courage none the less, in strife 
Of truth with falsehood, right with wrong, error 

with light; 
Though the field be but crowded thoroughfare, 
Home, office, busy mart, each smallest seed there 

dropped 
Will yield fruition mete, sometime, somewhere. 

Another fifty years — nay, that is over long. 

To hope for life to yield its best for thee; 

For just so much, no more, of fifty let me wish, 

As will perfect thy full maturity; 

Just years enough, dear one, to make thy life com- 
plete, 

Thy cherished hopes and plans to culminate. 

Each month of every twelve laden with good, the 
days 

Fleet-footed servants who thy bidding wait. 



37 



WHY DREAMEST THOU? 

Why sighest thou for wider fields, oh friend? 

Why dreamest thou of noble work, and great, 
When at thy very door lies untilled ground, 

And untouched tasks thy tardy hands await? 

Lo, at thy side, brushing against thy robe. 
Stand those who cry aloud to Heaven for thee 

To come and do the things thou dreamest of. 
Ask not for work, but that thou mayest see. 

Then will there be no room for vagrant dreams 
Of high, strange labor beckoning from afar. 

Thy heart, thy hands will be so full of these 
The dear, new duties calling where you are. 

If that thy life were but attuned to His 

Who made thee with thy work encircled round, 

Then couldst thou hear a voice within thee say 
The place thou standest on is holy ground. 

Thou wouldst, like Moses at the burning bush, 
Put off thy shoes, tread reverently, and see 

Surrounding, common objects glow and burn, 
Illumined, glorified, awaiting thee. 



138 



TO RUTH 

When first you came to us, dear little daughter, 

A tiny, dimpled, rosy mite, 
Almost too small to safely kiss or fondle, 

A helpless, newborn, stranger wight. 
You seemed to us a most entrancing creature, 

In form and feature perfect quite. 

And when you older grew, and cooed and gurgled, 
Became each day more fair and sweet, 

You were so white and pure, so cheerful, loving, 
So quick and bright, so dainty neat. 

That all a baby's many charms and graces 
We found in your wee self complete. 

Oh how we loved you then, our dainty darling. 
And longed, from dangers manifold, 

To shelter you adown life's fitful journey. 
I wonder do you need be told. 

We love you just as well, perchance e'en better, 
Now, dearie, when you're twelve years old. 



139 



YESTERDAY 

I was sittin' by the window, 

A-mendin' yesterday; 
A chilly wind was blowin' hard, 

An' everything looked gray. 

It kind o' made me think o' things 

That was a-goin' bad — 
Seemed like I had a harder time 

Than other w^immen had. 

Outside I see a little bird 

On our old maple tree, 
A-settin' on the highest twig 

As chipper as could be. 

It seemed to sing with all its might 
Perched up on that bare limb; 

O' course I don't know what it sung 
But 'peared like 'twas a hymn. 

I set an' watched it quite a spell 
It looked so brave an' strong, 

Liftin' its head agin the sky, 
A-pourin' out its song. 

Someway — I can't just tell you how — 

It sort o' lifted me 
To see that bird a-settin' there 

A-singin' in that tree. 



140 



MISUNDERSTOOD 

As Harvey went to mow the lawn 

One summer day, 
He found upon the dewy grass 

A young blue- jay. 
He thought at once of prowling cat, 
And dropped above the bird his hat. 
Then took it in his hand, whereat, 

In direful way, 

The thankless fledging fought and squirmed, 

And, loud and shrill, 
Such cries as only blue-jays make 

It uttered, till 
The parents hastened to its aid. 
By Harvey's size nowise dismayed, 
Straightway the doughty birds essayed, 

With claw and bill. 

To drive him vanquished from the field, 

And save their young. 
They pecked his unprotected head 

Until it stung; 
Loud to the frightened bird they called. 
In nowise by their rage appalled, 
Tho much regretting he was bald, 

The bird he flung 

Upon the grass; picked up his hat 

And came to me. 
To tell how they misjudged a friend. 

And let me see 
His bleeding head. The while he smiled 
At their fierce onslaught, useless, wild ; 
Of course they wished to save their child. 

But so did he. 

141 



I'm glad he rubbed his head and laughed, 

My husband good, 
And did not swear and hate those birds, 

As some men would. 
I'm glad they heard their baby's cries, 
And fought the giant spite his size, 
And yet, I wish they had been wise. 

And understood. 



WE HAVE THE LONGED FOR GOOD 

Oftimes we may not touch that which we long to 

grasp; 
We need not then waste all our life in grief; nay 

learn 
To see, through eyes by sorrow taught truth to 

discern, 
We have the longed-for good, have that for which 

we yearn; 
'Tis ours, more true than if its outw^ard form we 

clasp, 
In the ideal which our hearts do hold; 
The beauty seen by which our life we mold 
Is ours, howe'er adverse the wheel of fortune 

turn. 



142 



THOUGH THEY FORGET 

Our husbands, ever brave and strong, 
Our lover-husbands, leal and true, 

Who stalwart stand 'twixt us and wrong. 
Nor reck the cost of what they do 

For us they love — who love them yet — 

They will forget, they will forget. 

Not plighted troth, nor lover's word. 
Not tender phrase, nor deed most kind, 

Not duty's voice, though scarce 'tis heard, 
Not faith to us they behind ; 

But oft by business cares beset 

The things we send for they forget. 

Ofttimes to urgent last requests 

They give no heed from morn to noon, 

And oft they bring unbidden guests 
At times the most inopportune; 

The things on which our hearts are set, 

Are oft the things that they forget. 

The anniversaries year by year 

Of wedding days, unheeded go — 

These days we hold most sacred, dear; 
Yet in our heart of hearts we know, 

That spite of all they may forget 

They love us yet, they love us yet. 

And tho' oft to our grief we find 

Our letters pocketed, unsent, 
Tho' to our cherished projects blind 

They wound us most where least 'tis meant, 
Yea, tho' our birthdays they forget, 
We love them yet, we love them yet. 



143 



DROPS OF DEW 

"Ilka tiny blade o' grass 
Has its ain puir drap o' dew". 

This pristine proverb with its wording quaint, 
Hath found a place within my heart of hearts, 
A sense of rest and comfort it imparts, 
A sweet refreshing, lest my spirit faint. 

To every tiny blade of grass that lives 
Comes needed moisture; nor perchance from spring. 
Or shower, or rippling streams that dance and sing; 
Oft one pure drop of dew the blessing gives. 

For some life's streams like teeming rivers wind; 
Deluged with ceaseless bounties, some there be; 
And unto every one, yea, unto me, 
Some pure, sweet drops of good their way shall 
find. 

Fain would I lift my inmost soul to greet. 
And hold them close, like dear, expected guest, 
These tiny drops by which my life is blest. 
And made to grow strong, purer and more sweet. 



144 



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